Obsession
by The Lady Frost
Summary: Too young. Too innocent. Too much in love. Sometimes what we want, is the very thing that will kill us. Obsessive/dark/elements of non-consent and reluctance. Some S&M. Mind games. Power play. Elements of blood play. Not for the faint hearted. Leon/Sherry. Wesker/Claire/Piers. Rework of original version. DemonLeon3D artwork
1. Chapter 1

**_DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything Resident Evil (ok I totally own plenty of Resident Evil but not the creation of it)._**

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 **Stage One: Damnation**

 **Infection, Reflection, Subjection -**

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She would never forget the taste of fear that lingered like vomit in the back of her mouth. It shivered inside of her throat with a cloying glee, trying so desperately to force her body to heave and relieve itself of the panic and oppression and stifled rage that had been her burden for too long inside of that filthy, forsaken, and forgotten quagmire of perilous destruction. She felt the tears press behind her eyelids with a lover's touch, coaxing her to let them fall and purge herself of the poison that throbbed and robbed her of reason and replaced it with horrid regret.

The hollowed out carcass of Raccoon City lay forlornly behind them as the train rocketed off into the rising sun. The day was saved. They were saved. The girl in her motorcycle jacket and the boy in the uniform had ridden into town and swept her to safety. She was an orphan, yes, but she was alive. And when she'd lain on the floor, pulsing with fever and bleeding to death inside with teeming infection? They'd found the cure to save her life.

She'd heard the boy speaking while she lay there boiling and burning to death from her own blood. "Sherry? Sherry hold on. We've got the vaccine. Hold on honey. Hold on sweetheart. This might hurt."

His voice had soothed her. His voice had sent her to a place that was soft and gentle. His voice had been so calm, so gentle. The next few moments had brought the demons in her blood to the surface of her body. They'd tried, they'd really try, to rip themselves from the cage of her body and rip her apart in a burst of blood and infection. She'd bowed and started flopping and screaming and jerking. And the boy had gathered her in to hold her close while she raged. He'd put his hand over her mouth to quiet her and stifle her screams.

She'd smelled him, lying placidly in his arms as the storm of infection had fled and the healing had begun, she'd smelled him. Ivory soap, sweat, and survival; the scent of a savior. He'd been that. The girl with him the same. They'd saved her. She'd been a little girl then. Barely twelve years old. She'd been a "little girl" according to the voices and the faces of the men who'd taken her when they'd come to a stop at the end of the train tracks.

But she wasn't. Not really. She'd stopped being a little girl that day. She'd stopped being a little girl the moment her father had made sure she was a test subject for his madness. She wasn't a little girl as she fought the hands that held her while she listened to the conversation just outside the room where they held her.

The boy, Leon Kennedy, the cop who'd had one day on the job and spent that day saving her life. The boy was there with the men who'd held her. One of the men said, "We've seen your test scores."

And Leon Kennedy answered, "So?"

"We have a job for you, Mr. Kennedy."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No. You have a choice: submit and take the job or we can take the girl and open her up like a lab experiment to find out what answers she holds."

There was silence for a long moment. Sherry listened, breathing hard and fast. Her heart hammered, loud in her ears.

"You fucking bastards. She's a _little girl."_

 _I'm not. I'm not a little girl. Leon, say no. I'm not a little girl. I can be brave too._

"We need an answer, Mr. Kennedy. Yes or no?"

The silence grew loud. And finally, Sherry shouted, just once, "Leon! Say no! Don't do this for me!"

One of the men smacked her face, hard. The slap rang loud and meaty in the quiet room. And she heard Leon's answer, through gritted teeth. She could hear the rage in him, smell it, feel it. "It takes a real fucking coward to hit a little girl. Touch her again and I'll cut your god damn hand off."

"Yes or no, Mr. Kennedy?"

"Yes…you fucking bastards."

She didn't see him again. They dragged her away. They took her away and put her in a white room. The room was padded and bright. The room smelled of disinfectant and was silent. So silent. Soundproofed, clearly, and empty.

They poked her full of needles and took her blood. They hooked her to machines to test her brain waves, to take her vitals, to measure her responses. They sent a tutor to teach her and a gave her time to play in a dark, cold gymnasium. She wasn't sure how long she was there.

It was a day. It was a month. It was years.

She was the property of the US Government. She was under the care of Derek Simmons, the national security advisor. He took good care of her. He visited with her and played with her and got her a puppy. He was kind.

He gave her over for experiments and never looked back. He was shrewd like her parents had been. She was no more than a guinea pig to him; a guinea pig treated like a treasured prisoner. Because she was a prisoner there. She had no friends and only one visitor.

She had her first sex dream about Leon Kennedy.

All that shaggy hair, those blue eyes, that mouth…it had taken a sixteen-year-old girl and turned her into a woman at her own hand. She'd pictured his mouth and the taste of his kiss and become obsessed with him. She imagined how he would taste in her mouth; thick, smooth, and meaty.

 _I'm not a little girl, Leon. Will you watch me come for you?_

One day she was outside in the sunshine, for the first time in years, and they told her she was ready. Ready for what? Ready to learn.

They trained her. She was taught how to move, how to fight, how to shoot. She was taught to flee and leap and roll. She was taught to take a punch, drive a kick, roll an enemy and survive. They put her up against men twice her size and watched her rise. She could take a hit and keep going; she was invincible. She could heal a cut in seconds; a bullet wound in minutes. Could she amputate a body part and regrow it? They wouldn't risk it to try.

Claire came to see her. Claire Redfield, the girl in Raccoon who'd saved her life; the girl who was now a beautiful woman. They visited, often and wonderfully, they laughed and loved each other as sisters. They were good friends. Claire was her only friend.

They sent her out on a mission. She gathered BOW samples like a pro. She was good. She was better than good. She had nothing to lose, nothing to risk, and nothing to stop her. She was the perfect soldier.

There was only one thing that fascinated her enough to have her break from the mission.

And he was sitting at the bar.

The bar was beautiful. It was shiny mahogany countertops and leather bar stools. It was The Meridian in Monte Carlo. She knew he was there for work. She knew he was with USSTRATCOM. She'd heard he'd become the best in his field very quickly. The boy in the uniform had become a handsome man with skills similar to hers.

She hadn't seen him in a decade. She was twenty-two and knew he was a decade older. He'd been wet behind the ears and charming and fresh-faced in Raccoon City. Age had given him an edge. He was in Armani and Boss in black and red. He was swirling scotch in a highball glass and focusing the laser blue of his eyes on the mirrored wall behind the bar. The face was exquisite; chiseled jaw and patrician nose and full lipped. The hair was dirty blonde and cut in a way that scooped that perfect jaw on one side and tickled his ear on the other.

The boy had been handsome; the man was harder, rougher, and somehow more beautiful.

He turned that perfect head and met her eyes; the look was brief but powerful. It slapped around her want of him like a game of ping pong. She pursed her lips and smiled. He smirked and lifted a brow….and gestured to the stool next to him.

Her heart hammered.

Sherry crossed the bar in her little white dress. It was Valentino scoop necked and short, flashing toned thighs and highlighting the ice pick hourista black heels that Manolo Blahnik had clearly designed with crystals and satin and sin. They made her legs looks ten feet long. Her platinum blonde hair was all curls and corkscrews around her face that set off the blue of her eyes.

She eased up to the bar and the bar tender, a handsome man in a dark expensive suit and bow tie, moved over to smile at her. Sherry felt eyes on her; various men and varying levels of curiosity. She smiled and said, "Vodka tonic with lime."

The bartender smiled and nodded, moving to prep her drink.

A man slid on to the stool beside her. Sherry tilted her head, studying him. A handsome man who clearly knew it, he leaned forward to grin at her. "You gonna let me buy that drink for you?"

Sherry glanced over his shoulder at the man two stools down. He was listening, clearly, to their exchange. He looked amused. Sherry replied, "Why not?"

The man grinned, excited. She let him buy the drink. He talked about himself; bragging and preening like a proud peacock. Sherry let him jabber on. She waited, watched Leon Kennedy pay for his drink and rise, and sidestepped the still blabbering man without another word.

She tracked him across the bar and into the lobby. She kept back enough to not seem obvious and watched him take the elevator. Her eyes watched the numbers rise floors. He was in the penthouse. Of course, he was.

She hit the button and waited.

On the elevator, she noticed that the penthouse required a card key. She turned on her charms and flirted a copy out of the front desk without much trouble. She boarded the elevator, hit the button for the floor, and waited.

The doors dinged happily and opened to show the narrow hallway that led to the penthouse suite. The hallway was all plush red carpet and expensive mirrors. There was an antique settee off to one side that looked several hundred years old.

Sherry stepped off the elevator. She moved toward the room doors, lifted her hand and knocked, thinking of what she'd say when they opened. Leon, long time no see? Seemed stupid and generic. Sup? No. That was even worse. How you doin? Not unless she was on an episode of Friends. Honestly, she didn't quite know what to say.

The door opened and her time to decide was up. She opened her mouth and was staring into the barrel of a very big Magnum. Her voice failed her.

His didn't.

"You want to tell me why you're following me?"

Sherry was too shocked to answer.

Leon grabbed her hand and jerked. She stumbled into the room in surprise. He threw her against the door after he kicked it shut and pressed the barrel of the gun to her chest.

"I saw you down by the pier first. I gave you a little credit for looking like this. I thought, surely she's not trying to blend in."

And her voice finally came to her, softly, "Why not?"

"Seriously?" He cocked a brow, "Look at you. You look like a high-priced call girl. Next time you're going to play Nancy Drew you may want to dress the part a little more."

"Are you saying I look slutty?" Sherry sounded outraged.

Leon glanced down at her, deliberately slow and lazy. "I got hard just looking at you, sweetheart. You know what you look like."

Oh.

Oh, that was a good feeling. Sherry felt that shift in her body, in her blood, in her gut. She's a little girl, they'd yelled all those years ago. And she'd been a girl, yes, but she'd been a little girl with a big crush. That big crush was currently inches away from her and staring at her breasts in her dress. She felt herself shiver.

He felt it. It brought his eyes up to her face. He cocked his head, smirking a little.

"Like me looking at you?"

Sherry figured she could play this one of two ways:

One – she could shout out who she was. That would stop this in its tracks. He'd hug her and laugh and they'd talk and reminisce and be friendly.

Two – she could let it play out just like it was and see where it took them.

She studied that face. Exquisite. She'd had a crush on him as a little girl. The savior complex had been very real. But she wasn't a little girl anymore. And the crush? It was worse than ever.

And so, she said, "Yes."

That flipped his switch. She saw it register. He liked that answer. He was trying to figure out her game here. He didn't understand that the game was simple: she was here to see if she could touch him. She'd broken from her assignment to do it. She was in trouble if they found out. She didn't care. She wanted to put her hands on Leon Kennedy.

The press of her nipples was evident in the little white dress. She watched his eyes slide over that obvious sign of arousal and felt her panties dampen in anticipation. He rubbed the barrel of the gun, just a little, against one of those turgid nipples and pulled a gasp from her mouth.

Amused, he looked at her mouth and thrilled her. "What are you following me for?"

Sherry lifted her hand and took the barrel of the gun. She pushed it aside and he let her. She said, softly, "I'm not here to hurt you, Agent Kennedy."

And now he shook his head and backed off, watching her with a predator's intelligence. "You expect me to believe you? You've been stalking me all night. I might have let the pier go as coincidence and attraction. You kept looking at me, sure. But that might have been simple human interest. But then you were in the casino where I was playing poker and now here in the hotel. You're following me. Why? What do you want?"

Sherry stayed against the door, watching him. She'd heard about him. She'd heard lots about him. He was the James Bond of the agent world. He was unstoppable, incredible, vivacious and flirtatious and very hard to hold on to. He was also notoriously known for his ability to shift the parameters of his mission to suit his purpose. He didn't follow the rules and was often such a wildcard and a lone ranger that it was infuriating to his handlers.

He was also a known lady killer. It was whispered in various circles that he flirted with anything in a skirt. If he was doing more than flirting, that was carefully kept under wraps. Rumors, of course, spoke of his long-term love affair with Ada Wong but even that couldn't be proved. It was all speculation.

Sherry said, "I'll tell you. But can I move away from this door?"

"Sure." Mirthlessly laughing, Leon waved the gun to signal her forward, "Come on in. Why not? Want a drink?"

"I would love one."

He moved toward the bar in the huge penthouse suite. It was over three thousand square feet of space. It was all windows and glass and expensive hand scraped hardwood. He set the gun on the counter and prepped two drinks. Observant man, he made her a vodka tonic.

He turned back and she was still beside the door.

Lifting a brow, he queried, "You gonna stay there all night?"

"You didn't frisk me for weapons, Agent Kennedy."

She watched his face as that arrowed across the room at him. And his eyes did that slow, slow, slow slide down her body again. As if she could hide anything in that tiny dress she was wearing. As if.

It was the moment he realized that she wanted him. It was all over her face. It was in those perky little nipples. It was in that heavy, heavy breathing she was doing. It was humbling and arousing and raw. It settled in his dick and excited him.

He was a man who loved to play with fire.

And he was betting her fire would burn them both.

He set down the glass on the counter and picked up his gun. Pointing it at her, his voice, husky and low, instructed, "Toss any weapons you have on the floor."

"You trust me not to lie?"

Oh, she liked that look on his face. It was half bemused interest and half hot want. She couldn't begin to describe how it felt to have him look at her like that after all this time. Better…better than the fantasy in the sweaty sheets of a teenage girl.

"No, I don't."

Sherry nodded. "So, what do you want me to do?"

He moved to the plush white armchair that faced toward the door. And he sat there, watching her now, with that gun aimed at her. She could feel the want here; ripe and raw and murderous.

This was a dangerous game she was playing with him. Very dangerous. It could turn bad at any moment. But she wanted to play it. She wanted to play it with him. And she wanted him to say….

"Take off the dress; slowly."

THAT. She wanted him to say that.

Her hands shifted to the back of the dress and pulled the zipper. It echoed with a metallic gasp as she lowered it. The little dress, released from its binding, fell unrestrained to the floor in a whisper of cloth. It caught on the tips of her breasts for a shimmering moment before it fell in a puddle around her feet. Sherry remained in her high heels, sheer thigh highs, a black garter belt, and little red lacy panties. The dress didn't need a brassiere and so she wore none beneath it.

Her high, pale, perky little breasts were pert and excited in the cool air. A simple gold chain dangled between them with a locket. Her belly was flat and taut and the delicate mystery of her naval waited for lips and tongue and teeth. The flare of her hips, the line of her thighs, the suggestion of her mound…tantalized even as they curved in all the right ways.

Sherry asked, softly, "Satisfied?"

His face said he wasn't satisfied. Not even close. His face said he was hungry for her. Her flesh was pale and perfect; smooth and sleek and tempting. The blonde of her hair curled and curved and playfully flirted at the tips of those breasts with their pink little nipples.

He answered, coolly, "No. The panties. Now."

As if she were hiding a weapon there.

But they both knew she was. She was. The weapon there could kill them both. And he'd die craving it.

Impossibly turned on, Sherry lifted her hands and slid her fingers around the little lacy straps of the g-string. He commanded, gruffly, "Slowly."

And the command stole her breath.

She hooked her thumbs in them and peeled them slowly down her legs. As she bent, her breasts swung prettily and told him the story of being real. No implants there, he mused and felt the answer of it beat hard in the blood that rushed, painful and sharp, to his groin.

She rose again now and his eyes watched her; cool and calculating. The shift of his mouth made a lie out of that quiet grace. He wasn't cool, no, he was burning up. He was on fire. This was dangerous. Danger. He should hold her there and call hotel security. He should have her removed.

She was a bad girl; clearly. Why else was she here?

You shouldn't touch the bad girl.

But he looked at her little mound, at the smooth curve of her mound with that little landing strip so perfectly poised above it of springy blonde hair, and the frame of the thigh highs and the garter…and he wanted to fuck her. He wanted to fuck her. Even if she was an assassin sent there to kill him, he wanted to fuck her first and watch her scream.

His love of danger was well known. He was often a man who flirted too hard with the edge of what was right, what was wrong, and what was worth dying for. He was a man who enjoyed seeing how hard, how fast, and how far he could push the edges of his own universe. Blackmailed into fighting, he'd taken the boy without a choice and turned him into the man who blasted a hole in the wall of convention and made his own choices from blood and determination.

He wanted to know what she was here for, yes, but he wanted to taste her.

He was, often times, obsessed with a bad girl.

His voice came again, cucumber cool and low, "Turn around so I can make sure you don't have a weapon behind your back."

Jesus.

She turned, breathing sharp and fast.

He said, "Stop and face the door. Spread your legs and put your hands behind your head."

She was wet. She was already wet. The need for him moved inside of her like a thrilling spill of mindless possession. She followed his every command and craved him.

Her ass was smooth and heart shaped. It was pert and toned beneath the lacy top of the garter belt she wore. He could just imagine how it would look when he brought his hand down on it in a saucy little spanking. Leon shifted in the chair to accommodate the intense need of his erection.

He instructed her again, "Bend down and let your hair fall forward."

She did it. No questions. She didn't even argue. She bent down and all that blonde hair tumbled and framed the swing of her breasts; the perfect portrait of her pert bottom and the beautiful valley of slick want that waited between her thighs. He wanted to put his mouth on her right then.

So, he kept that gun on her and said, "Come here."

Sherry shifted, shivering, and moved across the room toward him. As she moved, she knew how this story could play out. She knew, too, that she'd do whatever he wanted. She was now, and would always be, enraptured with him.

She paused in front of him, looking down into his coolly studying face.

His voice intoned, "Tell me what you're here for."

And she answered, "This. This is what I came here for."

His head tilted, watching her. He tried to find the guile beneath the beautiful face but there was none. She was watching him with an almost hungry innocence. It was making him rock hard and throbbing for her.

"You came here for what?"

Oh. He wanted her to say it. He wanted her to tell him. Once done, there was no going back.

She had never been a woman that looked back. Back got you killed. Back got you chased into the darkness by things that would bleed you, rape you, kill you and leave your corpse for the vultures. Back got you dead.

The only thing worth looking back for was Leon Kennedy.

And he was sitting here in front of her.

Sherry said, softly, "I came here for you."

"You came here to kill me?"

"No." She shook her head and stepped closer. The muzzle of the gun touched her little belly. It was cold. He trailed it over her lower abdomen and across one hip. She made a sound of excitement and his eyes snapped to her face and held. Not cool now, no. they were very hot and very, very needy. "I came here to touch you."

Jesus.

He held her gaze. Who was this girl?

His voice rasped out, "Where?"

And her answer was perfect. Like she was perfect. And damning.

"Everywhere."

The muzzle of the gun trailed across the springy hair of her tempting little mound and lower, lower. He was going to touch her, there, there…THERE between her legs with that enormous Magnum of his. It was dirty, dirty and raw and delicious. She grabbed the barrel of it a centimeter from the promised land.

They held eyes.

His voice commanded, "Touch yourself for me."

Oh god.

Her other hand slid down her belly and pressed against her creamy slit. She was ready for him. He knew it. She knew it. Those little fingers brushed through her dampness and parted her folds to stroke. He watched her touch herself; watched her tease herself.

He said, "Show me what you want."

She pulled the barrel of the gun and he came forward with it. He didn't put the barrel of the gun in her, no, he put his tongue in her. His tongue joined her questing fingers and took her. Her voice gasped as his hands curled up her naked hips and pressed the cold gun against her back. His mouth destroyed her. The best in his field, they said, they were right about that. He was merciless and mercifully brilliant.

She let him claim her and kept one hand on her body to open herself to that hungry assault. Her fingers of her other hand speared into his hair and twisted. Her eyes stayed locked on the sight of him there feasting at the core of her body. The girl was a woman now and the woman? The woman was watching Leon Kennedy part her body and obliterate it.

His fingers found her now; deft and determined. They penetrated, pushing into the tightness of her body with a bone-numbing greed. Her finger slid over her clit; his tongue echoed it. His finger hooked into her body; hers joined it. It was, without a doubt, the most erotic mutual masturbation she'd ever experienced. The gun in his other hand took a tumble to the floor as his other hand slid up her sleek torso and cupped one little breast. He palmed her while he fucked her slow and deep with those curious fingers.

His eyes slid up her body, tongue twirling, fingers swirling, hand curling. That look was all knowledge, all greed, all skill. He _knew. He knew she was going to come apart for him._

And then he sucked her little finger into his mouth, his thumb curled with hers over her throbbing clit, and he thrust two fingers into her hard enough to steal her breath. She felt the orgasm spill out of her body like water from a broken cup. He let go of her finger and put his mouth against her clit. He sucked, sucked, sucked…and she was done.

Her mouth whispered, "Oh god…" She came, wet and tight, humping against his face and fingers. Her thighs shook, quivering. Her body quaked, twisting her fingers in that silky hair.

His mouth popped off her aching clit audibly and she bowed, gasping. Her thighs snapped together and trembled even as he unzipped himself. Desperate for it, she shoved at his shoulders.

The laugh Leon let out was humorless and excited and dark. He watched her move, trembling with the release and the taste of her in his mouth like some kind of drug. Jesus. He'd never felt this before. In his business, the one night stand was a staple. It was the thing one did to take the edge off. It was common, often dirty, and done with quickly.

But this?

This woman wasn't a one night stand.

She was the enemy.

Why else was she here?

She climbed on his lap and he couldn't find it in him to give a shit anymore. Her hands shifted him and guided him toward her. She dropped down and impaled herself on him in a move so breathtakingly fast and beautiful that it stole his breath. Wet, wet, tight and trembling, her body absorbed him into her and possessed him. The sheath of her welcomed him, worked him, and rewarded him with the sucking simplicity of feral fucking.

She rode, he rose, and their bodies slapped and slipped together with wet and want and sweat and need. His hands curved over her back and brought her down. Their mouths met; tongue and teeth together in a mesh of madness. The sound of gasping, grunting, and furious grappling filled the silent room.

Her hands jerked the white t-shirt he wore over his head. It bound his arms above his shoulders as she held it there, as she held herself there; trembling atop him. And she held him down now as she moved her body. She put her mouth against the perfection of his chest and bit down, pulling a grunt from him.

That was it. It was time.

Her body moved light lightning now. She fucked him with a determination that robbed him of anything but a desperate moan. Someone was cursing darkly. He realized it was him a moment before the sloppy, sweaty, delicious tangle of their bodies burst together into the storm of orgasm that she was throwing all around them.

Molded together, she raped his release from him with a continuous roll of hips and wet sheath. His body exploded, bursting blood and bits of flesh and bone all over them both…or so it seemed. He gasped it now, harshly, "Come for me."

And the command…the _command_ of it. It was perfect and stole her breath. He pumped hard and needy into her willing body, watching her face as she lost focus, lost reason, and came around him so tight, so very tight, that he answered that greed. His tongue claimed her mouth and she sucked it like he'd sucked her finger, hungry and raw. His dick erupted, spurting sticky, hot, and seemingly endlessly into her milking tightness.

They curled together in the chair, gasping and shaking. His arms were still bound behind his head. Her mouth licked at the line of sweat on his throat. Shaking, shaking, he lifted his head to look at her.

And his voice, raspy and thick, wondered, "Who in the hell are you?"

She shifted her face and something clicked. Leon felt a niggle of recognition. He shifted a little. His hands slid over her bottom and around her sides. He cupped her breasts and weighed them, playing with their sweaty sweetness.

She shivered again and rolled her mouth to him. They kissed, slow and smooth and deep.

Her body moved a little, pulling him deeper into her while she spasmed and tried to take his still pulsing dick with her. He made a sound and cupped her face. A gorgeous face, flawless…and young. His fingers traced her mouth.

She said, "I'm not here to hurt you."

"I'm starting to realize that. But who are you?"

She studied him and her thumb touched his mouth. "Does it matter?"

An odd thing to say. He opened his mouth and she spilled her tongue into it. Making a sound, he kissed her back. She had to do it now, she thought before he found out the truth and freaked out. Before he found out the truth and panicked. She wanted to burn the taste of him into her body.

She drew back now and met his eyes. "We're not strangers, Leon. Not even a little bit."

Again, there was that sense of recognition. He held her gaze. His fingers found the locket…they flicked it open.

And it was Claire's face on one side…and his on the other.

Surprised, he held her fervent gaze. She whispered, "You took the job for me, all those years ago."

She watched his face. She saw the moment the truth of it arrowed into him. He grabbed her face and held it. He tilted it left, right, and watched her eyes.

"Oh my god. _Sherry?"_ He sounded so shocked that it was…something. It was something. She didn't like it.

She slid off his lap.

He watched her move and tried to place the little girl he'd carried in Raccoon City with the woman that wore ice pick heels and a garter belt and fucked like a rodeo rider. Jesus. He watched her heart shaped ass as she bent over to pick her dress up and slip it on.

Holy hell.

Leon zipped himself up and stood, shirtless. His voice was low and surprised, "Sherry?"

"That's the rumor."

"Jesus Christ…how?"

"Well, a decade tends to make a girl grow up, Leon."

Shaking his head, he moved toward her. She zipped up the dress. He grabbed her hands and held them. She didn't look at him so he cupped her face and turned it toward him as well.

They held eyes now, watching each other. She met his with just a little flinching around the eyes.

Sherry Birkin.

He'd followed her closely over the years. He knew she was safe. Claire kept him updated on what was happening with her. He resented, in the beginning, that they'd continued to test on her even after gaining his agreement but they'd been true enough to their word about her care. She was safe. Probably safer in whatever place they'd been keeping her then loose in the world where Umbrella could track her down and eliminate her.

In the wrong hands, Sherry Birkin was the key to viral warfare in a way that was frightening and long reaching. Birkin had sown the seeds of destruction and megalomania in her to nearly catastrophic degree. With what was contained within her blood, the answers to the creation of Birkin's G-Virus were at hand.

He'd had no idea she had grown to be a beautiful woman. He'd known, all those years ago, she'd been a lovely little urchin of a child. But this wasn't a child. This was a woman. And she'd come all this way to…what? Be with him?

Why?

He asked that question now. "Why are you here, Sherry?"

"I'm on a mission."

"A mission?"

"Yes. I'm an agent myself. Hadn't you heard?"

He had. Through back channels. He knew she was being trained. He didn't know she was field ready. She was awfully young.

She was the age he'd been in Raccoon City. Young? Yes. But not too young.

"I heard that somewhere, yeah. But why are you here? With me? Why are you here, Sherry?"

Sherry held his look, "I told you why Leon. I told you. You saved me all those years ago. And yet you never came to see me; not once. Why?"

It was a good question.

"They wouldn't let me."

And that was a good answer.

Sherry nodded and her eyes studied that perfect torso of his. Honed. He was honed and muscled and smooth. His skin was tanned and refined. His stomach corrugated and strong. He was beautiful in a purely masculine way. An Adonis, he was clearly here to tempt her to her own demise.

He didn't let go of her face. "Sherry…why are you here?"

He wasn't going to let that go either it seemed. He didn't like her simple answer of wanting him. He wanted something else; something more. But what?

"Don't you know the answer?"

"No."

"I was twelve, Leon, but I wasn't a baby. You're all I've thought about for a decade. I had to see you again."

He was frozen there, watching her face.

"And when I saw you? I had to have you. That's it. That's all I know."

When he spoke, it was slow and quiet, "Why not just tell me that? Why track me all day? Why do this?"

"Because you would have seen me as the little dirty girl in Raccoon City. Tell me I'm wrong about that."

She wasn't.

She wasn't wrong.

He wasn't sure she was entirely right about it either. But she wasn't wrong. He didn't think he could go back to looking at her like the little girl in Raccoon City anymore. She was burned in his brain.

She'd been a baby in Raccoon City. A baby. Somewhere, Claire was having a heart attack because he was here in this hotel room deep dicking the baby they'd saved in that necropolis. The baby with the heart-shaped ass.

Sherry watched his face and waited. She looked so patient….like she could watch him all day. Leon spoke, quietly now, "Where are you going?"

"Where do you think? I figured you'd want to ask me to leave."

They held gazes for a long, long, long moment.

He moved toward the bar. He picked up the vodka tonic. And he brought it back toward her. "I poured you a drink. You should stay and drink it."

Oh.

Oh god.

She felt the shiver in her blood.

She took the drink and threw it back in a single gulp. It burned and thrilled her. He burned and thrilled her. And the want of it did the same. Her voice came, soft and a little scared, "What do you want, Leon?"

He grabbed her face in his hand, snake quick, and stole her breath. They felt the beat and bleeding need of it between them like fire. It burned them both.

"Take off your clothes and get on the bed. Lay on your back and put your hands above your head."

Oh god. He was so commanding. Her blood boiled.

She could say no.

But she didn't come here to say no.

She'd come here to say yes. And she wanted to keep saying yes.

And she wanted to do everything…everything…everything…that he commanded. She was his, she wanted to be his, she wanted to burn for him...she was finished...she was _damned_.

And, as he slid over her, she couldn't wait to be damned again.

* * *

 **Post Note:** _If you think you've read this, you have. It's a repost/rewrite. And will be limited to less than ten chapters this time in line with the original vision of the story. Leon/Sherry. Wesker/Claire/Piers._


	2. Capitulation

**Stage Two: Capitulation**

* * *

The board room was echoing with the emptiness of uninterested, tired, and jaded eyes. They met each other over the long mahogany table with the hollow-eyed harried look of dolls left too long in the sun. It seemed unlikely that anything, ever, would be able to entertain them.

Excella Gionne was going to try.

She was the spoiled, bored, but brilliant daughter of a family with ties back to the beginning of Tricell. Her Grandmother had been a Travis before she'd married, giving Excella the keys to a legacy of creation that touched on Umbrella and sent its seedy little fingers into the pie of the heart of the Global Pharmaceutical Corporation.

She might have played at being an arm piece to a handsome man. She was doing that when the mood suited her anyway. She was, in a series of palliative and derivative words, beautiful and statuesque and stately. She was, by turns, a stunning socialite and a genius geneticist. She understood viruses and mutation the way she understood designer labels and social pandering. Excella could work a room, create a virus, and infect the entire guest list while smiling and drumming up donations.

She was currently wearing Prada in red, showing enough cleavage to excite anything with a pulse, and waiting for the moment to reveal the first stage of her plan to those around her. She needed these bored assholes to throw down some money on her pet project. She'd gathered the T-Abyss with the help of Jessica Sherawat a few years back but she needed the funding to back her plans for the creation of something much…much…much worse.

She needed the funding to offer her partner in this little adventure the ability to create a new world. The soulless stooges staring back at her were making it difficult. They wanted results when there was no prototype. How was she to prove what could be wrought when they wouldn't give her the money to begin its conception?

Albert had been clear: he needed the money to pursue the use of progenitor and they needed a place to test it. Africa, in the midst of a civil war, was a political gold mine for such a thing. But she needed these old goats to agree to give her the money and the place to set up shop.

Smiling, charmingly, Excella intoned, "Gentlemen, you've seen the results of the use of plagas in Spain with the Illuminados. You understand the impact of engineering a virus that would result in a SELECTION of soldiers. Imagine…if you will…an RNA type virus derived from the mother of them all: Progenitor. I'm offering you the ability to finance, from the ground floor, a new world. A world built around gods and men. A world where the strong dominate the weak and are a superior race. You would sit amongst the mortals, while they fell and turned and died, and you would be as those atop Olympus: untouchable."

The bored eyes were shifting now, to each other, to the data on the screen against the far wall, to the woman that paced at the head of the table. They were interested. She had to nudge them further into her web to keep them.

"We've been struggling with insurgents in Kijuju for months. Allow me to show you the power of what I'm offering. Assist me in attaining samples of Progenitor and I will release modified type-2 plagas there to eliminate the uprising. It will distract from what we plan to do. I've been in contact with a bioweapons dealer for some time. He's offered to assist in the development and distribution. I have a brilliant geneticist on staff to help with the designation and creation of the new world…I just need you offer me the funding to help us build the world we've always dreamed of. The world Umbrella dreamed of…before the fall. It is STILL ACHIEVABLE."

One of the bored faces finally spoke, "What of the failure of the original construct? That prototype was volatile at best."

Another blank face added, "That outcome was fatal, Excella. It was too potent and too dangerous. The entire lab was sanitized to contain it."

Excella nodded a little. "Yes. Yes it was. But the potential was beautiful. It needs Progenitor…and it needs the inception of antibodies to control the amplification of the virus. We have leads on the second part. And I need YOU to help me obtain the first. With it? The virus will be selective. It will insert itself into the selected hosts genome and create gods. It will be a weapon we can not only CONTROL but that we can use to RULE. Gentlemen, the time to act is here. Let us take back that which was lost to us with Raccoon City. Let us take back the right to ASCEND."

The faces turned, nodded, nodded, and finally the one at the foot of the table said, "Get us results. We will get you the money."

Excella felt the world shift and roll with promise. This first battle was won. This first victory was theirs. Now they just needed to find the person with the anitbodies.

But who?

Who could have survived the infection in Raccoon City?

Who could possibly have the answers in their blood?

She dialed her phone as she left the boardroom. He answered on the first ring. "Albert, darling…I have what we need."

And he answered, "Good. I believe I know how to acquire the rest. Are you willing to get your hands dirty, Excella?"

"I am always dirty when I am with you, Albert. Always."

His laughter made her blood fire hot and fast in her veins. And they started planning how to make the world theirs.

* * *

 **The Compound**

* * *

The meeting went on long after it should have been over. Sherry sat patiently, watching the hands on the little clock above the wall turn and burn away the minutes of her life in a piteous portent of things to come. What was she in a hurry for anyway? She was going to leave this room after her debriefing and find her way to a dark gymnasium or an empty courtyard. There was little waiting for her beyond the doors of the big room where she sat.

Derek Simmons was speaking quietly with his head researcher. He kept glancing at her and nodding. He kept rolling that stupid cube he carried with him in his hand like a woobie. Sherry sighed and tapped her boot on the chair where it was planted.

She slid her hand up to grip the locket that lay there. Her mind wandered back to the night in the hotel with Leon Kennedy. She did, what she'd been doing for months now, and pictured it with crystal clear detail.

* * *

 **Several Months Prior: Monte Carlo**

* * *

He wouldn't let her close her eyes.

The moment she tried, his hand closed around her throat with enough pressure to have them popping open. It was enough pressure that she knew, he knew, they both knew…that he could kill her with it. He could hold her down, right here and now, and watch the light die in her eyes.

The heady promise of that kind of power washed over them both in a skin-prickling rush. But that wasn't the only power here. No. The power wasn't his. It was hers. Because her face said she'd let him. She'd let him hold her down and destroy her. Her face said he owned her.

And it frightened, humbled, and excited him.

His thumb circled the delicate skin of her throat while his other hand cupped her left breast. He held her eyes while he caressed her. Goosebumps peppered her flesh while he shaped and molded her to his hand.

His voice was gravelly and low when he asked, "Do you like that?"

Sherry nodded, gasping a little when that molding hand increased its pressure. He watched her face and saw the moment it hit the edge of pain and pleasure for her. He watched her eyes blur and lose focus…and he let go of that tortured breast.

She shivered, shaking beneath him.

And he had his answer.

She wanted him rough and commanding. She wanted him to possess her. The idea of it hammered in his blood like madness. He gripped her throat and held her gaze.

"Roll over."

She did, onto her belly. No argument. She was so eager. So beautifully eager.

Leon thought about losing the pants but kept them on. He didn't need the temptation to take her. Not yet. Not until they were both insane for it. Not until he'd possessed her in a way that meant, when she was gone, she would still bare the mark of him like a brand against her soul.

Sherry felt the fire of the need for him fill her belly and rob her reason.

And then? Then he spoke.

"You don't resist. You don't deny me. You may beg. You may writhe. You may _not_ come. Not until I allow it. Do you understand?"

Oh my god.

Sherry knew she could end this. She could stop this. She could stop it all. If she just said no. He didn't want to hurt her…or maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to hurt her. But he wanted her to WANT him to hurt her.

And, god help her, she did.

She'd never done anything but want him.

She whispered, "What will you do if I resist?"

He was so hard looking at her there. So hard. Impossibly hard. All fours with that beautiful little bottom up in the air. She looked at him over her shoulder. The spill of all that blonde hair around her framed her and made her an Aphrodite. She was lust and sin and want and greed.

What would he do?

Leon skimmed his hand down the line of her perfect back like she was a beautifully bred racehorse, like she was a prize. That hand skimmed down her bottom, between her legs and played in the sticky wetness of his possession of her that lingered there. She mewled, gently and excitedly.

What would he do?

She wasn't ready for him. Not even close. Not even with his seed still lingering there.

He thrust two fingers into her resisting body anyway. She let out a cry and tried to pull away. But she'd asked the question. And he had to show her. She gasped, "No! Don't!"

He grabbed a handful of that long hair and held her still while his fingers possessed her. He didn't pump them in her, no, he held them there. And his voice was so low it was hard to hear, "No?"

She hadn't meant the no.

It had been reactionary. But he'd surprised her…and he'd hurt her.

And she liked it.

His fingers slid out of her tight little body and she gasped again in relief. She shouldn't have been relieved. Not even a little bit. He kept her hair in his fist and brought the other hand down on her.

As spankings went, it was sharp; it was immediately stinging. And she made a mistake. She tried to buck him away. She knew, the moment she did it, that it was the wrong thing to do. Her blood fired with the excitement of what he would do.

He said, "Grab the headboard. Now."

She did, panting.

She wasn't ready. He shoved those fingers into her body again and brought his hand down again, simultaneously. One, two, three times while she jerked and bowed beneath it. And then he put his teeth against the tender little flesh of her bottom and bit her.

Oh god.

She felt the orgasm rushing toward her while he thrust his fingers into her body. She wasn't just wet now for him. She was just wet and excited. He licked around his invading fingers and brought his hand down again on her trembling, tender, sore little bottom.

Sherry cried out now, close to the edge, "Wait wait! Please! I'm going to come! Wait!"

That hand twisted in her hair again, his fingers kept right on fucking her body. "Don't. You don't have permission."

"Then stop. You have to stop! Please!"

He laughed, darkly, and pulled his fingers from her body. She gasped in relief and shivered, feeling the edges of red, wet, want blurring and trying to claim her. She shouldn't have been relieved.

He wasn't done.

He parted her legs and slid under her where she was on all fours above him. He said, quietly, "Don't let go of that headboard and do NOT come." She shivered as he put his mouth to her breasts that dangled prettily toward his face.

His mouth sucked in the shape of her; taking the delicate flesh of her body in as far as he mouth would allow. It crossed from pleasure and bordered painfully toward greed. He sucked her while his free hand went right back between her legs and he hooked a thumb into her body to torture her.

She didn't think she'd be able to resist it. She was too close to the edge. Sherry moaned, making sounds that were probably not even human. He savaged one breast and moved to the other. She tried to shift her hips away from that driving hand.

And it was too much.

Too much.

She whispered, "Stop…don't. Oh god."

He brushed his thumb over her little throbbing clit and she was done. She was just…done. She came, bucking and crying out and wet. She came in his hand while his mouth laughed around the breast he was suckling. He sucked her nipple fast and hard and pushed her screaming over the edge.

She jerked, bowing, and he slid from between her legs to leave her quivering and panting. She knew it was coming. She knew it. She was still thrusting her hips like he was there while the orgasm stole her breath. She was still coming down even as his hand did.

The sound of that spanking slap was meaty. It was loud. It was perfect. Her body jerked toward it even as her little red buttocks blushed prettily. It was harder now; punishing while it promised. He spanked her like the bad girl she was for coming.

Bad girl, he thought desperately, he'd thought that about her before. That she was a bad girl. And she was. She was mewling there while he punished her. A bad girl for him.

Jesus.

He was never a passive lover. It wasn't in his nature. He'd only submitted to the will of others once in his entire life…and it had been to save the girl trembling on the bed before him. Was he exacting revenge for that? Was he taking his frustration of a failure to find his own purpose out on the girl that had, indirectly, been the cause?

His eyes skimmed over the perfect imprint of his hand on her pert ass.

No.

And yes.

It was complicated and simple and raw.

He slid back between her quivering thighs.

She glanced down at his face. And he rose to his knees between her arms. She licked his chest and stomach while he did.

He grabbed her face and shook his head at her. Sherry made some sound of denied longing.

His voice commanded her now, slow and steady, "You don't let go of the headboard. You don't resist. Do you understand?"

"….yes."

He nodded and unzipped himself.

Oh god.

She knew what was coming. Her body trembled with the want of it. Her eyes hooded even as he pulled himself free of his pants. He was beautiful there as well; long, pink, perfect. Sherry made a little mewl of hunger for him.

Leon fisted a hand in her hair and drew her face down to him.

She didn't need any encouragement. She wanted to taste him. It was all she wanted. It was why she was here. She wanted to know the flavor of him. She could do nothing but want him.

But she shook her head and turned her mouth away from him anyway.

Amused, aroused, he gave her what they both wanted: he brought his hand down on her tender little bottom. She gasped with it and opened her mouth. He didn't wait, no, he filled her mouth with the core of him. She had no choice but to open her mouth and roll her lips over her teeth. He forced her mouth down on him fast and hungry. She drove that amorous little-wet cavern onto his erection like she'd die if she didn't swallow him whole.

He fisted his hands in her yards of blonde hair and pushed her down on his eager need. She gagged, just once, when it went too deep but she didn't stop. She just kept going. She the most eager thing he'd ever seen.

Leon finally pulled her free with a grunt and a shiver of denied longing. She made a little sound and tried to take him back into her. She licked the sticky tip of him and stole his breath on a laugh.

"Not like that. Let go of the headboard and lay down on your back."

He slid from beneath her and she hastened to comply. She lay placidly but eagerly amongst the pale blue sheets. Pratesi sheets were woven like silk; smooth and almost wet with their softness. She looked like a pinked, slick, sweaty goddess there amongst them.

On fire for her, he jerked her knees open to bare her to his hungry gaze. He was going to plow her body while she screamed. He was going to please them both with the hammer of it while she wept and rolled and rocked beneath him. He was going to fill her full of his need for her while she twisted and called his name.

He skimmed her thighs with his hands to watch her shiver. He spread his hand over her hips to feel the tug of excitement at her narrow curves. He swirled a finger at her pleasing little naval amongst the flawless, toned, and perfect plane of her belly. Leon started to instruct her again and he paused, narrowing his eyes at the beautiful evidence of her excitement for him.

And then he saw the blood on her thighs.

It was pink and almost pretty amongst the creamy sweetness of her own release. It brought him up short. It stole his breath. His eagerness abated beneath the wonder of it.

His fingers gently, so gently, skimmed over the evidence of her pain.

And his eyes held hers.

"Sherry…were you a virgin?"

Her eyes popped open in surprise.

He was looking at her now with something akin to horror. No no. No. This was why she hadn't said anything about it. She didn't want him looking at her like that. Like she was the sad little girl he was saving from her big bad daddy who didn't love her. No.

Sherry shook her head. "Don't. Don't. I knew what I was doing."

Leon breathed it now, softly, "Sherry…my god. I would have been gentle if you'd just said something."

"I don't want you gentle. Stop it. Stop." She grabbed his hand to press it between her legs, "Feel me there? I don't need you to be gentle. I came here to have you. Give me you. I don't need gentle."

That was a helluva thing to say. It made him almost sad to hear it. I don't need gentle, she said. What had her life looked like in captivity? Apparently, she was so well protected that she had never even known a man. Or maybe…maybe she'd saved herself for him?

The idea settled in his groin and stole his reason.

The look on her face said maybe he was right about that.

His voice was soft now but still commanding, "Grab the headboard and don't let go."

She did it, excited and eager. But he didn't plow her body. No. He leaned over and kissed her.

It was a good kiss. It was a soft kiss. It was smooth and sensual and raw. It made tears pop in her eyes with the sweetness of it. He cupped her face and held her eyes as they teared up.

"Don't," she whispered it, "Don't. Don't feel sorry for me."

"Sorry? Sherry. Did you save yourself for me?"

She tried to look away and he held her there, tightly. "Answer me, Sherry."

But she didn't answer. She slid her hand down his belly and gripped him in her palm. He gasped, humping his hips toward her. And her voice was low and challenging. "No more talking. Now."

She was too small and sore for what she was asking. He knew it. She knew it. But the wild need on her face was like madness between them.

He grabbed her hands and wrapped them around the headboard rails. And he said, softly, "Do not let go. Do not come. Do you understand me?"

She shuddered, watching the ice chip blue of his eyes spark and roll with greed for her. All she could do was nod.

He pushed her knees back and thrust into her so hard that it ripped a cry of pain from her mouth. She bowed, bucking against the assault of it. Toward it or away from it? She didn't know. He didn't let her decide.

He did what he'd wanted since the moment she'd dropped her dress in the living room. He plowed into her body with a merciless and desperate abandon. She was sore, throbbing, and screaming with need. Her hands let go of the headboard to grab at him and try to push him off her as the pain exploded into her belly.

Leon grabbed those flailing hands and wrapped them back in place. He held them there while he used her body. Her legs wrapped around his hips; her hips meeting each mercilessly rough thrust of his body into her.

The punishment for letting go of the headboard was meted out in the grasp of his hand on one of her tender breasts. He put his teeth to it, wrapped his hand around it, and brought her mouth open in a cry of pain and need. She felt the orgasm smash into the pain and become the perfect symposium. It was roaring and ready.

Her voice gasped, desperate, as he thundered inside of her without any sign of slowing down, "Please! Please…I can't!"

She could.

They both knew it.

She was so close. She was bucking beneath him with the need to find her release. He shifted her hips, angled his body into her, and found a spot that stole every breath she had. It was perfect. The utter completion of pleasure, pain, and madness. She screamed his name, just once, and he stopped trying to destroy her with the greed of it.

He slowed, he stilled, and his tongue spilled into her mouth. It was wet and warm and wonderful. The slow glide of his body inside of her now was tender, tingling, and touched the soreness that throbbed at the core of her. His hand slid down her sweaty belly and stroked through her moist folds to find the heat of her.

Sherry gasped, humping toward him.

He whispered, hoarsely, "Let go."

Did he mean her hands?

Did he mean her body?

She took him at his word.

Her hands dropped and caught his face. His tongue and hers mated and fucked together inside the wet cavern of his mouth. And her body hit the edge of her burning hunger and let go. She came around him while he kissed her. It was almost gentle. It was almost golden as the edge of her release came out of her mouth in a shuddering sigh.

Still hard, still unfinished, he slid out of her eager, sucking little body. She gasped, feeling the tender and raw release of it. She was still coming down. His fingers slid into her as his body retreated. Slick and wet, she sucked those into her body as she spasmed. He kept them there to feel her body orgasm.

Amazing.

She was flaccid and limp on the bed beneath him. But her eyes held his.

"You didn't go."

He dropped his mouth to kiss her. It was smooth and sensual. It was sexy and slow. She curled toward the feeling of it while his fingers stroked her. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing. He was soothing her. He was soothing the ache inside of her.

Touched, she opened her eyes again.

And he answered, "This was about you. Not me."

Oh.

Oh oh oh. She felt that thing in her belly that told her she was in love with him. She felt it like pain and blood and echoes of something bigger. The girl had loved the handsome cop that had saved her life. The woman didn't even know the man. Not really. But she knew that she wanted to know him. She wanted to know him. Her body craved him. Her heart? Her heart was obsessed with him.

He rolled her to her belly now and put his mouth on her. It was smooth and soft. He kissed down her spine; kissed the tender pink globes of her bottom. And his hands smoothed and petted her body with a lover's endless attention.

* * *

 **The Compound**

* * *

She'd fallen asleep on her belly with his hands on her petting. She'd awoken in the early dawn to find him beside her sleeping. She'd rolled toward him and touched his mouth.

Unwilling to disturb him, she'd rolled gingerly to her feet. She was so sore. But it was good. It was a good soreness. It was the soreness of woman who'd loved a man. The soreness of want. And it was wonderful.

She'd snuck off into the coming sun like a thief.

There was no regret here.

Well, there was some. She wanted to stay. She'd wanted to keep on touching him. She'd wanted to rouse him from slumber to love him. But she'd snuck away.

There was no way to explain why she'd saved herself for him. There was none. The only answer she could give was that she'd had nothing but time to miss and fantasize and glorify him for ten years. The fantasy had never, ever, been enough. Her fertile imagination had never done him justice. He was so much better than that.

Sherry focused on Derek Simmons as he spoke to her. She knew that if he discovered what had cost her a precious day of her last mission, he'd find a way to have Leon eliminated. Simmons didn't like anything standing in the way of business. He was a patriot; his soul purpose was the defense of the United States against bioterrorism. He wouldn't understand a woman's need to feel her savior between her thighs. But he would punish her for the oversight and poor judgment.

He came toward her, smiling faintly. "Sherry…your mission was a success."

"Yes, sir."

"You gathered samples from the surrounding European villages as instructed?" He queried.

"With ease, sir."

"You didn't meet with any complications on your mission?"

She doubted he meant the complication of Leon S. Kennedy's tongue in her. She was relatively sure he wasn't talking about the personal ramifications of losing her virginity to the man so carefully referred to as "the immortal". Nope. He was all business.

"Not at all. I gathered intel easily in Monte Carlo, as instructed, and pursued all the leads through to conclusion. It was not challenging."

"You encountered no hostiles?"

"None."

"Good." Simmons patted her arm companionably. "Your visitor has arrived."

Claire.

"Oh! Really?"

"Yes. You're excused to see her."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you." Sherry hurried from the room toward the courtyard. It was a cool and sunny day. The wind was brisk. She didn't know where she was. She was never told. She was escorted away from the compound and put on private planes and sent on missions. She didn't know where she was being kept.

Her "home" could be anywhere in the world.

It was done "for her safety". But she still felt like a bird in a gilded cage. She was trapped here. Would it ever end?

The courtyard had dogwood trees and perfectly maintained gardens. They were lying dormant now as fall was in full swing. The changing leaves were lovely and riotous in color and texture. They lay in shades of gold, orange, and red beneath her feet as she hurried toward Claire.

Claire's lovely red hair was pulled back in her signature ponytail. She laughed with delight; cuddled inside of her little brown leather jacket. They embraced, happy to see each other.

Claire told her of Terra Save and the work she was doing. She spoke of Barry Burton's daughter with pride and interest. Moira was young but eager. Claire suspected she'd join the NGO and pursue the fight against terror like her father before her.

Sherry wanted to tell her about Leon but held back. Instead, she listened and laughed and let the afternoon wear on around them. They shared a soda and talked about Claire's failure of relationships. They spoke of the puppy Simmons had given Sherry, now a big shaggy dog named Mr. Kennedy, and how he was never far from Sherry's side.

Claire was chuckling a little as she left the compound. Her escort took her to the edge of the forest before they released her. She was thinking of Sherry as she boarded the private plane that was chartered to take her home.

She was thinking of her last failure of a relationship as she turned the key in her door to her apartment. She was thinking maybe the fact that he was married didn't have to mean it was over. Right? He was separated…probably. Maybe. Shit. She had terrible taste in men. It was notoriously bad.

Maybe she should call Chris to ask him.

She pushed open the door to her apartment and came face to face with sunglasses and sunny blonde hair. She froze, blinking

"Captain Wesker?" The shock of finding him there squeaked out of her voice.

"Where is Sherry Birkin?"

"What?"

"Where is Sherry Birkin…. _Claire?"_

Ugh. The way he said her name. Like it was something wet and dirty and wrong. It made her afraid to even stand there looking at him. She should run.

But she was frozen in place. Sherry. SHERRY. She had to protect Sherry. Wasn't that why they were hiding her? To protect her from Albert Wesker.

"I don't know. What are you doing here, Wesker?"

He didn't answer, obviously.

But he did smile. He smiled while he shoved the plunger into her chest. She jerked and glanced down. It was sticking out of her breastbone like a dart.

She grabbed it and pulled it free. It tumbled from her hand to clatter on the floor. His gloved hand lifted to cup her face.

She tried to bat him away. "Don't touch me."

And now he laughed at her.

The world shimmered. She staggered. He caught her against his chest. She tried to pull away and felt him lift her.

 _Wait…WAIT. DON'T._

But her brain put her down while he carried her away. It went into the darkness screaming. She heard him say, coolly, "How long do you think you will be able to resist me, _Claire_? Before we're done, you'll give me Sherry. You'll give me yourself. You'll give me your brother if I ask. I'm going to hollow you out until there's nothing left of you but a shell."

Oh god. Oh god.

It was the moment she knew, she KNEW, she had to protect Sherry from this man…no matter the cost.

 _Sherry….stay hidden. Don't be stupid. There is nothing worth sneaking out for. Nothing. Stay hidden. Stay safe. Stay…_

… _.alive._


	3. Extrapolation

**A/N:**

 _At this point in our little tale, there has not been the discovery of Jill Valentine and her antibodies. So, what does that mean? It means, at the current time, the only person that we know of that has special blood? Oh yes, Sherry. So, that's why our most hated/loved villain is going to be hunting her down. Eventually, we know, that Jill will fall into his hands and offer him the answers. But for now? Let's see where his pursuit of his new world gets us._

 _I have a dirty but prolific mind. I thrill myself with it sometimes. I have lots of smut lying around looking for a home. I'm using it here. As the master/commander theme of my writing is prevalent in most of my love stories. Why? It seems I'm drawn to the dominant male, the alpha. I'm drawn to a strong female presence in the same way BUT the quiet power of women enthralls me. So we see that although Sherry and Claire may submit, they will never be ruled…not entirely…by that which possesses them._

 _Power._

 _A potent aphrodisiac._

* * *

 **Stage Three: Extrapolation**

* * *

 **Devil's Elbow, Kentucky**

* * *

Sherry took a search and rescue mission to escape her gilded cage. It was little more than a fetch and run to bring back a fleeing informant. It was cake and would likely give her little more than 72 hours before Simmons came looking for her if she didn't report back in.

The hills of the Kentucky countryside were still rolling and still green even as Fall looped her arms around the world and welcomed it, shivering with delight, into her comforting embrace. The trees were riots of color and commanded the hillsides where they rose, ever-changing, above the virtuous canvas of teeming perfection. If she never left the compound again, she knew that having seen the bustling, beautiful, endless sprawling Monte Carlo metropolis water line and the breathtaking splendor of the Kentucky wide open plains would stay with her like a dream.

She tracked her subject, Trey Burns, to the smallest little town in the Bluegrass State. Burns was wanted for questioning regarding the sale of black market viral weaponry to a few struggling factions of zealots responsible for an outbreak in a small urban area of Minnesota. He wasn't the power behind the sale, no, but it was suspected that he'd instituted the meeting of the two parties involved. He'd fled when security had attempted to collect him at his job at a Minnesota manufacturing plant. Backchannels had located him, potentially, under the radar in Kentucky. He had obscure relatives living in the area and was reputed to be hunkering down.

He was not considered armed or dangerous. Rarely did Simmons risk her on missions regarding her imminent safety. She got the feeling that he only sent her on missions to keep her compliant with her captivity. Eventually, she was going to gather the resolve to demand her freedom. She wondered what he'd say when she asked. Technically, holding her was against the law. But she doubted the National Security Advisor cared about her civil rights. He was probably holding her under the guise of the Patriot Act – promising that the world would see her as a terrorist committing treason against the United States. Such an act was in place to keep terrorists from claiming their civil rights. Those were all forfeited when one was considered a traitor to their country.

The small town was called Devil's Elbow. Apparently, the person who'd named it had a sense of humor because she didn't think the devil would bother to frequent what was little more than a wide spot in the road. She saw two stoplights in the whole town. Two. It was just that small.

A brief check of her GPS told her she was nearing the safe house set up for her by the agency. She pulled her little-rented sedan to the side of the road in front of the house and killed the engine. It was a tiny little cracker jack box of a house. It was yellow and had lacy little curtains that she could glimpse through the sparkling windows. The garden out front was well tended with pretty red plants called burning bushes that had clearly changed colors for the season.

Sherry jangled the keys in her hand as she stepped out of the car and popped the trunk to remove her bag. The bag was filled with clothes and her ID and her weapon. It was tucked smoothly in between a sweater and her favorite jeans. She was a crack shot with it although she'd never been forced to pull it in the field. She never missed on the range.

She opened the little white picket fence that was the garden entrance gate and moved down the cobblestoned walk toward the house. She glanced at her phone as she walked, wondering why Claire hadn't yet answered her texts. It wasn't like her to not respond for days on end.

Maybe Terra Save had sent her to another refugee camp to help with biological decontamination. Claire was often on the forefront of the humanitarian efforts following an outbreak. She was never shy about getting her hands dirty.

Sherry opened the little door and moved into the house, flipping through texts from Simmons and from her handler, Yvonne. She answered as she moved into the foyer. It was cool and dark in the little cottage. She set her bag by the door and responded to another text from Gary in mission control.

The low light of a lamp across the room flicked on and scared her to death. She dropped her phone in surprise.

"You should never, ever, enter a room without clearing it first."

Leon Kennedy was sitting in the recliner across the room. He had one leg crossed over the other casually and his gun was sitting beside him on the small table there. He was dressed in a long-sleeved Versace button down in black with a white dragon beautifully embroidered on the left upper chest and shoulder. The jeans were Diesel and stonewashed deconstructed in a style that looked guileless and falling apart and sexy. The boots were clearly Ferragamo. He was never a man without something expensive and beautiful on his body.

Sherry put a hand to her thundering heart and breathed. "You scared me to death."

"Where is your gun?"

She met that cool gaze and that stoic judgment with a blasé expression. "It's in my bag."

"In your bag?"

"Yes."

"What if I was an enemy? You'd be dead now. I'd have blown you away first at the door while you jingled your little keys so prettily and signaled your arrival. And again when you blindly walked into the house without clearing it. Who trained you?"

That quiet professional derision rankled. She met his look smoothly. "I see your point, Mr. Kennedy. Why are you here?"

Leon said nothing now; he simply watched her and waited.

Annoyed, Sherry shifted where she stood.

It was interesting to discover he'd missed her. He'd listened to her flee that night they'd spent together in Monte Carlo. He'd let her run. It was ok that she had. He'd needed a little time to digest their time together himself.

Her long blonde hair was carefully pinned back in a style that looked artless and simple and had probably taken hours to perfect. The shaggy fall of her bangs highlighted the pretty roundness of that gorgeous face. She wore a little butter yellow jacket and flare legged jeans. His practiced eye told him they weren't expensive but simple and fit her like a glove. There was the peeking promise of white beneath the jacket where it gapped.

She didn't wear much makeup. But she didn't need it. The perfect porcelain face was unlined and smooth. The gorgeous clear blue of her eyes were ringed in black liner and her mouth slicked with pink gloss. It shivered in him how much he'd missed her. And he'd missed the sweet sound of her voice. The voice was older, yes, but still the charming pitch of a bird to the ears. The voice was the girl in Raccoon City.

The body was the woman he'd touched himself thinking about for months.

Sherry said, again, "Why are you here, Leon?"

"Officially?"

"Sure. Officially."

"I'm here to assist in the capture of Trey Burns."

"They sent you to assist me?" She sounded surprised as she unzipped her jacket and slipped it off, hanging it on the little coat rack by the door.

"Not exactly. I volunteered. Simmons is worried about his potential to flee."

Irritated, Sherry crossed the room in her little white t-shirt and jeans. He watched her move and enjoyed the way she tried to cover up the rage of emotions. She failed, miserably, but she tried. "Simmons doesn't trust me to get the damn job done. He thinks I need a fucking babysitter."

Fucking.

The filthy word sounded so cute coming from that little mouth.

The image it elicited in his head? Nothing cute about that.

"You want me to take off and leave you to it? I figured it was better me than some trumped up asshole with a savior complex."

Sherry paused by the door to the small bedroom. She considered him. "You don't think you have a savior complex? I've rarely met a man that didn't."

"I don't think I'm much of a savior."

"Curious answer. Why not?"

"The savior generally doesn't flip the girl he just saved over onto her belly and spank her while she writhes."

Oh.

Jesus.

Sherry held his gaze. The little white t-shirt with its V-neck was offering a good view of those perky little breasts that he'd had his mouth all over. This is what she'd been wanting. That was written all over her face.

Her voice was so soft and breathy now as she asked, "Why are you here, Leon? Unofficially?"

And his answer stole her breath.

"The last time was about you. This time? It's about me."

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might faint from it.

"And what do you want?" Barely a whisper.

The small clock above the tiny fireplace in the living room gonged the hour. It sounded so loud in the teeming quiet. She felt the thrill of that cool calculation while he watched her, unwavering. He knew and she knew that whatever he wanted, whatever he said…she'd do it.

Or he'd punish her for it.

"Your surrender."

It was a good answer.

They held eyes for a long moment.

And her hands shifted to smooth brown leather of her belt.

* * *

 **Meanwhile...somewhere in the wilderness…**

* * *

There was blood dripping down her body.

The realization of that alarmed her even as she dangled. She was bound to the cold stone and the sounds of dripping somewhere in the musty darkness was her only companion. Terrified, her eyes tried to find something beyond the torchlight that flickered on the far wall.

She couldn't see the source of the blood. She couldn't tell where she was bleeding if she was bleeding if it was fresh, old, or even hers. She was naked with her arms bound above her head with iron shackles.

Claire made some sound of fear as the door opened with a creak of rusty hinges.

He entered the room in all black. Did he ever wear anything that wasn't all black? He wasn't alone this time. The last two times he'd come in the room to question her, he'd been alone. This time? He brought a pale-faced servant with him.

The servant carried a tray.

The tray had a single plunger filled with dark liquid.

Wesker lifted the plunger in one gloved hand. "Claire Redfield…I find you try my patience. I've prepared this truth serum to loosen your lips. Shall we dispense with the normal torture and begin the evening with it?"

Claire jerked against her bonds. The last two times he'd come in he'd tried first intimidation. He'd threatened her, he'd threatened Chris, he'd threatened Sherry and Leon and everyone she loved. When he realized she wouldn't cower to any of that, he'd shifted his focus to torture. He'd turned her to the wall to whip her.

The strike and slap of leather on her back had stolen her breath. It had robbed a scream from her mouth. It had left her with snakelike stripes of blood on her perfect skin. He didn't permanently mar her…no…but he left her welted and wounded. And he wasted his time.

He could kill her slowly, daily, and she'd never speak a word of where Sherry was. Never. Ever.

Wesker wrapped his hand in her sweaty, sticky hair and drew her face back to look at him. "Shall we try this another way?"

His hand shifted. She watched it like the hens must watch the fox the moment he breaches their sanctuary and begins to stalk them. He didn't hit her. He'd never hit her. Not like that.

He cupped one of her naked breasts in his gloved palm and whisked a simple thumb across her nipple. His voice was so very, very, utterly bored when he intoned, "Perhaps this is how you get a Redfield to talk? My sources tell me your brother gave away quite a few secrets when Jessica Sherawat spread her perfect thighs for him. Perhaps you'll do the same."

The horror of that spilled between them like blood.

Was he talking about raping her?

….or did he think to seduce her? Surely not. Surely he was kidding. He was supposed to be an evil genius. A genius didn't bind a woman to a wall, threaten and torture her, and then try to seduce her. An idiot did. But she was betting he wasn't an idiot.

He tugged playfully on that breast and sent that fear into her soul.

No. No fool.

His intelligence was frightening. He knew exactly what he was doing. He thought to break her with fear. Death didn't scare her. But this? This numbed her soul with terror.

And lifted brow said he knew it.

It said he thought he'd already won. She'd be _damned_ if he did. She'd rather die screaming than with her thighs spread for his demon seed.

Jesus Christ the idea was horrifying.

She spat in his face.

It hit those perfect glasses and slid, wet and ugly, down the flawless lenses.

His smile was frightening. It was frightening and wolfish and amused.

"I'm going to enjoy breaking you, _Claire."_

"….fuck you."

"Artless but surprisingly poetic given my plans for you." He shoved the plunger into her chest. Claire gasped, jerking against her bonds. And that hand molded the shape of her breast now, almost playfully.

"You're going to be screaming your secrets for me, Redfield. Screaming." He put his mouth to the delicate shell of her ear while the drug in her body brought her mouth open in a silent cry. "Do it now and save yourself."

Claire turned her head, slowly, and the world spun like she was drunk. She met those opaque lenses and shifted. Their mouths were a breath apart when she whispered, "You've spent _years_ trying to break my brother, you stupid bastard. You think he's tough? You ain't seen nothing yet."

The drug stole her vision and turned it red at the edges. She slumped in her chains; body throbbing. She was paralyzed, frozen, dangling now at his mercy. And she was so afraid. Terrified. His hand slid down her bloody stomach and across one flawless hip. The drug turned the touch to fire against her skin. Not a truth serum..not exactly…an aphrodisiac.

 _Oh my god._

Whatever was in that cocktail made her skin hungry. It made her blood boil. It made her brain burn. She was trapped in the cage of her own need. She despised him. She abhorred him. She feared him.

And her body said she wanted him.

His hand brushed over her thigh and the trembling center of her need. Claire made a sound of horror. And her mouth said, "Don't you fucking touch me."

"Is that really what you want… _Claire?_ "

Her mouth said, "Yes." But her body…her body arched against that gloved hand as it skimmed her inner thigh.

That was the power of his drug. It didn't stop the mind. It didn't even stop the body. She could still turn away from him. She did so now, in her bonds, but she shivered…she shivered for him. Because her flesh wanted his touch. It fairly throbbed for it. It was the ultimate date rape drug.

He was going to use it to destroy her.

He grabbed her face and turned it toward him. She watched his mouth move toward hers. She tried to jerk her head away even as he touched their lips together. She shook her head, denying, denying…and her mouth pressed back against him.

 _Oh my god._

The fear ate around the edges of her world and stole her breath while the drug devoured her and the sound of his delighted laughter chased her into the trembling dark that came with it.


	4. Maturation

**Stage Four: Maturation**

* * *

 **Somewhere where hope is lost...**

* * *

Such a pretty little thing. She dangled, like a painted canvas looking for the right master to put his brush to her and create…immortality. A legacy, she wielded the name he'd hated for so long in a way her brother had been missing. _Redfield._ The name rang like twin bells of rage and madness in his skull. And yet, yet, yet…it was so poetic. Because she was red.

Red.

Red.

Hanging there covered in blood and trembling for him.

She was watching him with something akin to horror in those familiar eyes.

The eyes were all Chris Redfield. They were long-lashed and lovely in a softer, sweeter, rounder face. She looked at him with that Redfield strength and his soul thrummed with the desire to watch her scream and bleed and break. He would love to have her brother chained to the wall opposite to watch but Redfield was too insulated. In the bosom of his organization, he was untouchable.

But his sister?

She was unprotected. She was unnoticed. She was the Redfield NO ONE was watching. He'd found her, stolen her, and kept her with little interest from anyone. She was lost here with him. She was lost in nightmares and there was no end for her. He could call out for the brother. The idiot, the self-sacrificing fool…Redfield would come. He'd offer himself. He could have them both.

But it wasn't Redfield he wanted. Not yet.

The new world demanded he find the answers. The new world needed creation. It needed seven days of his rebirth. It needed him to finish the prototype and bring the revival of mankind upon the unwitting masses. The world needed him to finish.

And he needed Claire Redfield to find the answers.

He was going to enjoy breaking her.

And he rarely enjoyed anything anymore.

Since his ascension, he was so bored by the human condition. Little interested him. He didn't care about money or sex or power. Not like he had when trapped inside his mortal coil. He didn't care about anything but revamping and reshaping the world in his image. He wanted nothing more but to create an immortal kingdom fit for his ruling.

A god complex? Megalomania? Perhaps. But he'd earned them both.

There as nothing and no one on earth like him.

He was the last of a line of creations by a mortal fool with a dream. When Wesker had found that old fool, he would release him from the shadow of his own delusions. He would remind him that he hadn't ever been a god…but he'd created one.

Spencer. The genius. His vision had been limited by human emotion.

Albert Wesker was limited by nothing.

And he was going to show that to the sister of, perhaps, if not his most mortal enemy…then his longest standing one. Chris Redfield had chased him from one end of the world to the other. He'd been a thorn in his side since refusing to die in the Spencer Estate. He'd stood above him while the tyrant had bled him and done nothing.

He'd stood there while Albert's mortal body had died and done nothing.

In a way, he was to be thanked for that. He'd given Wesker the keys to his own ascension. He was, in one hand, a god because of Chris Redfield. Grateful for it, he'd left Redfield alive all these years. He'd studied him, fascinated by the will of a mortal man to achieve revenge and to seek redemption. It was the catalyst that pushed men beyond their boundaries. What would Redfield become with the shackles of his human soul removed?

Would he become a god?

Or a devil?

It was such a delicious conundrum. The answer was coming. But it started with Claire Redfield. And ended with Uroboros.

Even the name was victorious.

Wesker said, softly, "How are you feeling…. _Claire?_ "

She said nothing, watching him like a mouse watches the cat who intends to devour it.

Wesker moved toward her, pacing her like a scientist studying his creation. He watched her like she was his Frankenstein's monster. And she was, in a way. He was testing the first of a series of cocktails he'd created for mind control. The first dosage he'd created had turned his original subject into a blithering idiot. It was too powerful for humans to withstand.

The second had been better but still flawed. The girl he'd tried it on had never stopped being under his control. And she'd followed him like a pathetic puppy. He'd finally given her to his most trusted companion to dispose of her.

She was currently a flagrant, horrifying, beautiful human artwork in his castle. His most trusted companion was excellent at art work. Excellent. He was a Picasso, a Pollack…unappreciated for the scope of his abstract vision. But brilliant. Wesker had found him as a sweet little sidewalk killer in a back alley in Italy. He'd been wrist deep in a chest cavity. Their eyes had connected over the mangled remains of a prostitute and Wesker had known then, and always after, that this Jack the Ripper of modern times was meant to sit at his right hand in the new world.

He couldn't wait to share the joy of it with Claire. Perhaps giving her to Alesio would make her squeal like a pig. But there was little fun in that. And the only thing that elicited any real emotion anymore was the fun of control.

He wanted to control her.

And it started here in this room.

Wesker moved toward her and, in a single move, unshackled her hands.

She dropped to the floor and cowered, crab walking backward away from him. He let her go. She couldn't run far. And she'd never outrun him.

She hit the door of the room and found it locked. Panicking, she turned back to face him.

And then she did what a Redfield would do: she lifted her hands into fists as if to fight him.

Amused, Wesker studied her. "What will you do with those hands, little girl? Will you hit me? I will let you try. Come at me then."

She did. Bless her. She raced right at him. The balls she had clearly came with the name. Chris had always been a lot of things but he'd never been a coward. Claire threw a perfectly executed punch at his face.

He shifted his head to the left, minutely, at the last moment. And he didn't hit her back. He grabbed her wrist, he twisted her arm a little and made her gasp, and he put her against the wall on her face. Panting, she spat at him, "PIG!"

"I feel that's an unfair remark, _Claire._ I have never been anything but courteous this evening. I haven't even been rude. And I can be….rather rude when it suits me."

"I hate how you say my name! You bastard!"

"Do you?" Wesker considered and tested the limits of the drug. He slid his hand over her hip. She gasped, jerking against him. Toward him? It was impossible to tell.

He said, "Do you hate me, _Claire?_ I don't think you do."

"….I'm going to kill you."

"Will you? Time will tell. And you bore me. You sound like your brother. And his threats and generic. You won't kill me. But you will tell me what I want to know. I offer you this last chance to do so now."

Claire lifted her free hand…and gave him the finger.

Wesker laughed. He laughed. Amused. He would always be amused by the stupidity of the human condition. Bravery; what a dumb emotion.

"Very well. I did warn you." The hand that slid around her hip moved farther down.

Claire, figuring out too late what he intended, cried, "No! Don't!"

But, of course, he did. He shifted those gloved fingers down her groin and put them inside her. He wasn't even gentle about it. He wasn't even pretending to be. He pushed her against the wall, she smelled the blood and mold there, and he drove his fingers into her body like he'd rip her open with it.

Claire bucked her body against him, shouting now. "No!"

But the no was confusing. It was confusing. Because she was bucking, yes, but she wasn't bucking away. Entirely. Not entirely. Her body pushed against that invading hand and invited it harder into her.

It was the moment he knew that the drug worked. It worked. Perfectly. It would need a higher compound dose on the Progenitor virus to potentially make it perfect. Progenitor would likely offer the ability to have COMPLETE control of the subject. But for now? It was simply a beautiful, beautiful, powerful experiment.

Wesker laughed, watching the arch of her pale back as she simultaneously resisted and reacted. She shuddered, pressing herself against the wall. Her hips angled back toward him. Testing, he pulled her into his body.

And she went, making a sound in her throat.

He let go of her arms.

She didn't turn to embrace him. But she didn't hit him either. She seemed to be frozen, gasping. Her arms were above her head. They stayed there, fists clenched.

Wesker pumped his fingers into her body, harder, faster; testing the limits of what she wanted. Of what she'd do. He commanded her, low now, " _Claire,_ tell me what you know." A whisper of it against her ear.

Claire struggled now. She struggled. She tried to escape that fucking hand. That hand of his that fucked her while she struggled. She turned her body to hit him and he pinned her arms above her head to hold her down. That hand…that hand…it kept pushing into the wet heat of her. He did it smoothly, swiftly, effortlessly. He worked her body like a madman, like a professional. He worked her like she'd paid him to it.

She kept saying, "Stop. Stop. Stop." And she kept humping his hand like a wild thing.

But she didn't tell him where Sherry Birkin was.

His thumb found the apex of her body. The gruff feeling of leather from those gloves abraded her even as they abused her. He sensed the tightening of her body as she raced toward…what? Horror? Orgasm? Both. Neither. BOTH.

She shook her head, fighting. She bucked forward, back. "Please!"

Please, what?

She didn't know anymore. She was so scared. Scared. Of what? That he'd break her? No. But that she'd come for him? Oh yeah. That terrified her. The disgust in her blood for him was painful. It was awful. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

She was desperately afraid if he made her come; she'd vomit.

And his invading fingers pulled free of her body with a nearly audible wet pop of sound. She gasped in relief and struggled now, just struggled, trying to get away from him. But he hadn't removed his hand to help her.

No.

He'd removed his hand to bite the tip of one finger on those gloves. He pulled it off and it dropped to the floor.

She whispered, "Don't. No. Please don't."

"Where is Sherry... _Claire?"_ He hissed it against the delicate shell of her ear.

"…fuck…you." So soft. So angry. So filled with rage.

It fired his blood.

He shoved his bare fingers inside of her slick, wet, waiting body. She was so, so, so ready for him. Her body welcomed him back like a sucking thing. And the bare, raw, naked contact of him inside of her was incredible.

Claire snapped her thighs together, trying to dislodge him. Her hips humped his hand, trying to pull him deeper. His knee came up and thrust between her legs, opening them wider. His fingers brushed, brushed, rushed and thrust into her body without any suggestion of stopping.

She jerked in his hold, screaming, screaming. As the orgasm ran red around the edges of her vision. It was so close. So utterly close. No, she thought desperately, you can NOT come screaming for Albert Wesker. Even the idea of it was ridiculous. It was insane.

Who came screaming for a psycho!?

His thumb flicked the apex of her want. It flicked once, twice, three times and she did. She DID. She yelled, "Oh my god!"

And her body curled into the wall. Her body curled into his hand. Her body curled into itself with horror and shame and fear….and need. And she gushed. She gushed and rushed and burst. She burst in his thrusting hand like she'd been dying to do it. It made sense. It made sense. Because giving him this was going to kill her.

One fat tear squeezed down her cheek while she burst, dying, flying, crying softly against the wall. He let go of her hands. He let go of her hands to grab her hip and angle her body back against that plunging hand. She grabbed the wall and her body…her body rode his bare fingers through her release.

She made a sound of self-loathing and fear. She made a sound of loss.

His hand jerked out of her body, so hard, scary hard. Painfully hard. And he laughed.

He grabbed her hair and dragged her back to the wall. He pinned her arms above her head.

He put his slick hand against her lips and traced her mouth. Claire shivered, shivered, and spit in his face. It slid down his cheek.

Amused, he grabbed her breast and tugged. She gasped, grunted, and arched into his touch. Even as she cursed at him, "PIG!"

It seemed he would always be a pig to her.

He grabbed her face and held it, studying her.

REDFIELD.

The name alone was enough to make him enjoy this. Enjoy it. It was a shame she wouldn't last long enough to matter. He was going to break her soon enough.

The drug? It worked BEAUTIFULLY.

"That was just my hand… _Claire._ Imagine…what happens next. Tell me what you know."

Claire felt another fat tear plop down her cheek. She would NOT cry. He wouldn't get that from her. Now. EVER. EVER.

"Kiss..my…ass."

Admittedly…a poor choice of words. But she wasn't at her best when she was still having aftershocks from a forced orgasm.

He held her face…and licked the taste of her off his fingers while she watched.

Claire shuddered, disgusted. Disgusted. Disgusted...and, yet, her mouth opened for the taste of it when he dropped his head and put his tongue into her mouth to share.

It was the moment she knew, knew, knew…she was damned.

And the drug had started to wear off. The horror of it washed through her body. And she rolled her face to the side to gag. Gag. Dry heave and gag.

She was desperately afraid she was going to die here. Die here...dining on the taste of her enemies tongue.

* * *

Three days in, he took her down from the hook. Generously, he even allowed her to bathe and eat. She huddled in the shower, shaking. She didn't weep. She refused to weep. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of it.

He dressed her like a doll - in pretty gowns and jewels. He escorted her to dinner like gentlemen. He included her in conversation with his guests. His "guests" in this house of horrors where she was imprisoned. He made it seem she was his willing companion there.

The first dinner - she handled poorly. She tossed her wine in his face. She spit on the food. She was rude and disrespectful to the guests.

He ignored her like an errant child. He excused her behavior with a calm smile. Him and his fucking dark tinted glasses - she spit in his face when he escorted her to the drawing room for drinks after dinner.

She hissed, low and angry, "I will _kill_ you when I get the chance. I will enjoy it."

A shift of his hand and she'd jerked, gasping, shaking. Injected. He'd injected her. The rage boiled in her and she blinked, feeling the tremble of those hated tears on her lashes. "...bastard. That's the only way you'll ever have me."

A hissed promise. A harshly spat vow.

He pressed a kiss to her mouth and she snarled, even as her fucking body humped toward him. She grunted with anger, even as she opened her mouth to his tongue. He kissed her in the doorway of the drawing room, so pale and proud. He kept his hand at the small of her back - a polite suitor with his tongue in her throat.

Liar. Fraud. Fake. _Bastard._

And a quiet promise from her to her, "Behave, Claire. Or I will hike up your dress and fuck you in front of all these people. I will drag you to the square in the village tomorrow and do the same. You will scream and come and beg for more. Or you will play the dinner date. You will do that, and I will leave you untouched tonight."

He didn't say forever. He said tonight. I will leave you untouched...tonight.

She was living one night at a time.

She had to escape- instead...she took his arm and followed him into the room like a princess on a perfect date.


	5. Combustion

**Stage Five: Combustion**

* * *

 **Devil's Elbow, Kentucky**

* * *

Leon almost looked bored there, watching her shed her clothing.

Sherry wore nothing now but little pink panties. Her clothes lay discarded around as if tossed away by careless hands. And they had been. They were pointless. The only point was tapping one booted foot on the floor while he watched her.

The low light cast him in soft shadow. It spilled, shifting and tempting, over the angelic beauty of his face. One of those cerulean eyes studied her; the other obscured by the fall of shaggy blonde hair. There was just enough growth of beard on that flawless face to thrill the viewer with the promise of the man beneath the model. It took away from the perfection enough to remind you he was neither model nor ethereal but mortal and red-blooded and ready to rule you.

Leon draped one arm over the back of the recliner, rocking while he watched her. She waited for his next command, tremulously tortured by the weighty pleasure of that merciless perusal. And he finally spoke, almost tonelessly, "Come to me."

She started toward him and he shook his head. "No. _Crawl_ to me."

She froze. He watched that register over her face. It thrilled him to see the resistance in her. It thrilled him to feel her want to say no.

 _Say no…say no, Sherry. Let me show what happens to bad girls that say no._

She didn't crawl, the little minx, she walked toward him.

Amused, he watched her until she stood before him.

His voice was bemused, "I said crawl."

"I know what you said."

His hand shot out, snake quick, and grabbed hers. She gasped at the pain of it as he jerked her forward. She spilled across his lap on her belly.

And she barely had a moment to understand what was happening. She barely had a moment do anything but gasp as his hand came down. The slap was loud in the quiet room and brought her mouth open in a cry of surprised pain. It wasn't gentle, it wasn't playful. Of course not, she thought wildly, he wasn't playing with her. He was punishing her.

She rolled as if to leave his lap and he twisted a hand in her hair to hold her down.

The shock of it rocketed into her body and aroused even as it frightened her. Power, she'd thought, it was all his now. All his. And all heady.

The strike of his hand came again, painful and sharp. Sherry jerked and pulled against the hand in her hair. Leon jerked her face up to him for the effort of that. She opened her mouth for his tongue even as he brought his hand down again on her stinging bottom.

Sherry moved to grab his face and hold him and he shook his head, popped their mouths apart and rolled. She spilled sideways and he pushed her over the arm of the recliner. He held her down now, arms trapped behind her back.

He tugged her little panties down to leave her bare to his gaze. She struggled and the sound of his delighted laughter thrilled them both.

"Will you crawl for me?"

And she whispered, "No!"

He was rock hard for her; throbbing for her. Clever girl. She knew the game without even trying. Resisting him pleased them both. Capitulating would do the same. God, he was insane for her.

"I'll make you crawl for me, Sherry. We both know it."

She cried out, "Don't!"

But, of course, he did. Of course. He held her down and brought his hand down against her in three sharp, painful, pleasurably torturous strikes against her blushing body. Her perfect cheeks pinkened beneath the brutal assault. She jerked against his hand.

Fighting?

Or begging for more?

Not even she knew the answer.

His mouth was there now. It was there. It bit gently into the aching, throbbing, stinging skin of her abused body. He left imprints on her pink flesh; teeth to match the handprints there. Sherry made some sound of pain and pleasure and lifted against him.

Oh yeah.

She was perfect.

He licked the back of her thighs. He licked along the curve of her ass. She shimmered, shook, and gasped, "Please!"

"Please what?" His voice was a little hoarse with the need of it. It amused him to hear it. Like a fifteen-year-old boy. That's how he felt when he was with her. It was a good feeling.

"Please touch me!"

"Will you crawl for me?"

"…no. Please. No."

"Then no." But he did spank her again. God. The sound of it was exciting. She moaned, bowed, and he shivered for her. She couldn't see it. She was somewhere between rage and wanton greed so wide, so consuming, that it wanted to destroy her. It wanted to erode her soul until she was nothing but his puppet.

Leon let her go and shifted away. She lay there, breathing sharp and hard.

He moved toward the bedroom.

Sherry shivered, watching him go.

In the dim light of the doorway, she saw him turn toward her.

His voice came now, "How much do you want me, Sherry?"

Two sets of blue eyes met, meshed, held. She lay there over the arm of the recliner, panting. Her perfect little ass was stinging from his punishment.

His fingers lifted and flicked carelessly on the buttons of that expensive shirt. First one, then the next, then another; he exposed that perfect chest like the world's most tantalizing strip show. It flapped open around his torso; the perfect frame to the perfect picture.

She'd never wanted anything more in her life than him.

They held gazes for a long, long, long moment.

And then she dropped to the floor and crawled toward him.

His laughter wasn't insulting. It was redeeming. He laughed with triumph and excitement. He laughed because even though he'd won…they'd both won. The want that shivered here between them was brilliant and beautiful and poignant.

She crawled into the room and he caught her under the armpits. He lifted her, easily, effortlessly, until she dangled and was eye to eye with him. The power in him surprised her. He was lithe, a boxer, a runner, a swimmer…and apparently, she'd underestimated the strength in that finely-honed muscle. He held her and he didn't even tremble with the effort.

"Tell me what you want."

He was asking her if she wanted it sweet or if she wanted it hard. He was asking her so he could give it to her, give her exactly what she wanted; what she needed. The offer…the offer of it meant more than anything else he'd ever done for her.

And just then, just in that single statement, just in the unfaltering blue of his eyes…he'd given her back some piece of herself that had been so raw and throbbing. There were no games here. Unless she wanted to play them.

She'd always wondered what he'd feel like. She'd always wondered what he'd touch her like. She'd always wondered how he'd smell and move and fuck. He was letting her pick the way they touched each other here, now. As if it might be the last time they did. She wondered how one sampled temptation, how one sampled Leon Kennedy and never came back to dine again.

But he was promising her the ability to do just that if she wanted.

He was offering her the power to choose. To choose the how, choose the who, and choose the path she wanted to take. She lifted her hands and gripped his face. Something in her yearned for him.

Tonight, he offered her the power to make all her dirty dreams about him real. How could any of this be real? She couldn't…couldn't…be standing here in his arms. Impossible. Improbable. And real.

So, she did what felt good. She did what felt powerful. She grabbed handfuls of his hair and gave him her answer.

"Make me yours."

Her mouth dropped to his and devoured.

His heart hammered, hard and fast in his chest. The blood flooded to his groin, thrilling him at the prospect of it. The excitement filled him for her. So, this was how she wanted it; hard, fast, furious. She'd meant what she'd said; she wanted him to possess her. She wanted to be his. He would make her his.

He lowered her to her feet.

Sherry wanted what was under his clothes, under his skin, under his soul. Her fingers gripped his shirt and pulled, peeling it off him. It lodged on his upper arms, binding him there for a moment. She rolled her face against his exposed chest like a cat, scent marking.

The pulsing want for her lodged in his chest and stole his breath.

The shirt fluttered softly to the floor behind him.

There was so much of him, muscle, flesh, and the seductive pulse of the heart beyond it all. The soft spread of hair over his pecs ended in a happy trail down to the waist-band of his pants. He was probably going to be the most delicious game she'd ever played.

She skimmed her fingers over each delineated muscle in his stomach, feeling the ridges and valleys that made up his upper body. She traced his pecs, playing along with the suggestion of baby fine hair above his nipples. He was too muscular for too much chest hair but there was enough to pull at things low in a girl's belly. She put her mouth to one nipple, drawing it into her mouth to tempt herself. He made a little sound of pleasure in his throat at the nearly delicate touch of her.

A girl, Leon thought desperately, she played at his body like a girl. An inquisitive, desperate, beautiful girl that painted his body with her hands and her mouth and her imagination. She put her mouth harder over the meat of him and bit down, so, so gently. She drew the feel of him into her, suckling on his flesh. And she had her answer; he tasted as good as he looked.

The possession of that was a double-edged sword. It cut between them both and bled where it struck. They both shivered with excitement over it. How much do you want me? He'd queried. He had his answer. And it humbled him even as it tried to kill him.

He was very still as her hands jerked at his belt and it whipped free from the loops with a scream of leather. He grabbed her chin and turned her face up to him; his eyes scanned her features, searching. He balled a hand her hair and jerked her up toward him; his other arm caught her around the waist and lifted her against his front, stealing the breath from her lungs with the strength of it. His thumb settled into the softness of the underside of her chin and forced her face up to his.

She'd always known he'd be that kind of lover. Fast, rough, nearly impossibly greedy. He kissed her like he'd climb inside of her mouth, bury himself inside of her, and burst out of her body on endless waves of pleasure. She made some sound of surprise, of delight. The Immortal, they called him, and he was. He was. Because the need in her for him was undying.

He walked with her clutched to him, driving his tongue into her mouth with a nearly perfect tempo of thrust and suck. He was brilliant at it. He was a master kisser. There was no awkwardness here. He was no virgin. The kiss said it all. This guy…this guy knew how to fuck her and leave her twitching and begging for more.

It scared her a little. He could do whatever he wanted to her and she couldn't stop him. He was in control here. She was his. He could force her down and fuck her while she screamed and begged for him to stop. He could fuck her to death and she would be able to do nothing but take it. The thought of it frightened and enthralled her, a potent aphrodisiac. Because she'd opened the gate to her own addiction, to the pain and pleasure that would come side by side with what was about to happen. And it came in a very big, very powerful package. The fear had a salacious, addictive, and dangerous edge. It spiraled out of her mouth in a moan.

Leon pushed her against the wall and held her there. He was relentless, commanding, pushing hers into the right pace with his, rewarding it with just the right pressure, just the right thrust and combination of give and take. He pinned her against the wall and ripped away any shred of second thoughts that might have even attempted to poke their ugly heads up and stop what was happening.

When he let her come up for air, she was gasping, breathless. Her skin was flushed, pink and sweaty. He grabbed her chin, held it. His voice enthralled her, raspy and low, "Do you want me?"

Did she want him?

Was he insane?

Who said no to that?

"I want you." And she whispered it.

The world went red, black, and ran with blood and want. She gasped, bowed, and he fingered her over her panties until they grew damp and desperate. Her hand grabbed his wrist and held it there against her body. He laughed, erotic and low.

Her hands tried to shoot down between her legs to touch herself as the pounding, desperate wave of want nearly killed her. He knocked her hands away, gently but firmly, and tempted her like a devil there to call her soul from her flesh and fuck it raw, "No."

She made some sound in her throat that was nearly pleading.

If he was the devil, whatever deal he offered, she'd take it. She'd have sold her soul in that moment for what he offered. He mounded one little breast in his hand and played with her body. He set his teeth to her and it wasn't gentle. He tried to see how much breast he could get inside his mouth in a single bite.

Sherry was keening in her throat now, her hands grabbed the back of his head to hold him to her? To push him away? His mouth let go of her breast with a wet popping sound. The breast was pink, edged raw with the start of a hickey. Satisfied that he'd marked her, he switched to the other with a grunt of approval. He was softer this time, smoother. This breast he worshiped, sucking and nipping, biting and playing. The contrast in it robbed the last of her brain from her head and shot it straight out of her ass.

Leon pushed off the wall and walked to the bed.

She didn't even need him to say it. She didn't. She dropped and crawled toward the bed after him. The utter submission of it made him desperate for her.

She climbed onto the bed and lay on her back, looking at him above her on his knees.

He drew back to look at her in the moonlight. The shadow of him covered her completely. His hands pulled her panties off her and she bicycled her legs excitedly to help. He chuckled a little, amused at her desperation.

Sherry was small, delicate; her curves were subtle and refined. But her hips flared beautifully, her legs were perfect and curvy, her breasts were perky and surprisingly full above the toned and muscled promise of her belly. She was beautiful and the fact that it wasn't in an obvious way, made it all the better.

Leon thrilled them both when he commanded, "Touch yourself. Show me how you want me to touch you."

Her hand was nearly tauntingly sweet as she lowered it and stroked her body. He watched the arch of her fingers; watched the push of her need against the wetness that waited for there. He wanted to feel her while she so ingenuously touched herself.

He pushed a finger into her body, watched that pretty little face go red with want and need. His thumb cupped at the moist slit of her, circling her clit while he slid his finger in and out of her. She was so small inside, so warm and tight. His finger slid out of her, fighting against the hungry pull of her body. Small or not, she was a greedy, sucking, desperate little thing. Her body wanted a good fucking.

She'd been so pure when she'd come to him the first time.

He wanted to corrupt her and claim her and own her.

It was a heady feeling.

And he whispered, "Don't come for me. Not without permission. Do you understand?"

Her face was blushed and burning. Her body was sucking his fingers like the mouth of a whore. She gasped but nodded.

"Say it, Sherry."

"I won't come. I won't come…oh god…"

They were both pretty sure she was lying. But it didn't matter anymore.

He claimed the taste of her by spilling his mouth against her body thrusting his tongue between her fingers into the heat of her. It was like dying and flying and coming undone. His mouth was merciless, as his kiss had been. This was no gentle ascent; this was a siege. He sucked the apex of her body into his mouth, rolling the bud of her begging clit first between his teeth and then against his relentless tongue. She nearly came right there, right on the spot, but he shoved two fingers into her body and she was pretty sure she died instead.

His tongue joined his fingers, thrusting, delving and diving into her with a maddening abandon. He held her down on the bed with his hand spread on her body, his other hand forced her hips to roll into a rhythm of rise and fall. She held on until the pleasure was simply so deep, so big, and so wide that there seemed to be no end and nope for anything but drowning alive in it. Her legs collapsed and trapped his hand between her thighs, he leaned over her and gave the taste of her body back to her with his questing tongue.

That was it. That was all it took. She crested, gasping, her hands grasping at him nearly desperately. She cried her release into his mouth as it poured over her flesh in a hot, nearly scalding, wave. She humped her hips continuously against his hand as the orgasm buried its teeth into her and shook her around like a dog with a bone.

He leaned back, rising over her again as the shuddering eased back into trembling. She wondered if she'd ever know again the feeling that came with seeing him like that, poised above her all muscle and strength and lust. She lifted a hand and rubbed it over his chest, ran it down the corrugated planes of his stomach, dipped into the wonderful mystery of his navel. His happy trail was impossibly soft to the touch.

Leon caught her questing hands and rolled her to her belly.

Of course. Of course. She'd come. She'd come without permission. Of course. She was tender from the last spanking he'd given her. So tender. It was nothing but pain now as he brought his hand down on her. Sherry gasped, tried to crawl away, and he splayed a hand on her back to hold her down.

Another solid smack against her smarting bottom and she felt the tears prick her eyes. It was too much. She started to roll away from him.

And then he parted her legs to touch her. He gathered her arms to put them behind her back and hold her down on her belly while he spread her open beneath him. One hand stroked her aching bottom while his leg slid between hers to torture her.

He rubbed her over his knee, rubbed her body against the gruff texture of those expensive jeans he wore. One hand held her arms firmly behind her, a captive to his whim. The other grabbed her around the hips and forced her body to ride him, just like that, to just ride his knee while he soothed her sore ass. Whatever sound she was making, it couldn't be human. It was desperate and maddened and dying.

She was on the edge of an orgasm when he stopped and rolled her to her back on the bed. She slid down his knee in a wet, gasping, shuddering heap. He was a wicked thing. A tempting thing. A soul stealing, flesh robbing, pride-swallowing demon.

And she ached for his possession.

She shivered, trapped by his eyes, as he dropped his head and dipped his tongue into her mouth. It wasn't a kiss so much as a raw taste of her. He brushed her tongue with his, swirled them together in her mouth, and then sealed their mouths together with the perfect amount of pressure. He kept her in place with just his eyes. They wouldn't let her look away. He forced her to see the pleasure he was shoving like a sword into her body.

Sherry made some sound in her throat, trapped in that long, long look. His hand slipped between her legs and very, very slowly tortured her. Again, the contrast moved her. The duality was addictive; forceful, desperate and then sweet and slow. He wouldn't let her look away, forcing her to hold his gaze while he pushed her up the wall of her own need. She couldn't think of anything she'd rather see in just this moment then his face while he took her.

He said, quietly, "I'm going to fuck you. Tell me how you want me."

Her hands caught his face and held it. She shimmered there beneath him. "Give me more."

Enough games, he thought, he'd give her more.

He drove his fingers into her, just once, hard and deep.

She bounced, moaning. He caught her hands and drew them above her head and straddled her hips. Her hands jerked at his zipper and pulled him free. She grabbed the length of him in her fist, jerking him gently as he rocked. He palmed both of her breasts now, rolling them in his hands and torturing her. The gruff roughness increased and he mashed them now, nearly hurting her. It smashed the pain and pleasure centers in her body together and brought a hungry moan from her mouth.

Leon lifted off her body enough to finish getting undressed. Distressed at the absence of his weight and warmth, Sherry touched herself while he disrobed. She pushed eagerly at her aching body and nearly killed him where he stood.

Naked, he collapsed down on her, bracketed her head in a push-up motion. The skin to skin contact from toes to temples made them both desperate. She locked her legs around his, sliding her feet down his calves. He dipped his head and kissed her, shifted his body a little, and rubbed himself of the moist, wet, willing heat of her. His hand fingered her, working her, opening her. She realized, maybe a little too late, he was preparing her for him. Such a rough, demanding, soul stealing lover…and that simple thoughtfulness touched her. Rough or not, he didn't want to hurt her. Not like that.

Leon shifted himself against her and put himself against her body, rubbing. Sherry grabbed his face now and kissed him. She licked his mouth, slid her tongue into it, and nodded. She nodded to give him permission. She nodded to give them both permission. Make me yours, she'd said.

She was ready.

He eased himself into her body. She shivered, gasping from it. She was too small, too tight; she wasn't ready for it. He didn't want to leave her bleeding again. But he did. He did. He wanted to leave her bleeding for him.

He was a fucking monster.

No. The want of her was the fucking monster.

Her creamy heat pulsed around him and the blend of pain and pleasure on her face as he slid out and rode back in, harder now deeper, nearly pushed him into an orgasm again. What a game they were playing, he thought wildly, one they would both win. Her body tried to reject him even as it sucked him deeper and tighter into her.

She drove her nails into his ass, hard; he felt the sting of broken skin. The wet heat of his blood against her hand was like a shark scenting food on the water. She was undone for him. "Please!"

She was a siren, calling his soul from his flesh to please her.

His voice rasped out, "Don't deny me, Sherry. Don't resist me."

Resist him? Was he insane? Why would she?

What could he do that would make her resist him?

He showed her.

The first hard, desperate thrust of him into her tore a cry from both of them. She scrambled her hands over him, trying to find something to hang on to. She pushed against his chest involuntarily as if to force him off her. But her body closed around him like a wet fist, pulling him deeper. He shook his head, wanting more. He rose, pushed her legs back until she was open and ready for him. She shook her head, opened her mouth to say, "No, don't!" He didn't give her the chance. He shoved himself into her so hard that it echoed like a wet meaty slap when their bodies struck together.

The sound she made was part pain, part shocked pleasure. He ground himself inside of her; ground himself against her cervix until she struggled against the feel of it, shoving at his chest. But at the same point where the pain was too much, too raw, the tilt of his hips brushed over that spot deep inside of her body that was nothing but pleasure. He grabbed her pushing hands in one of his and forced them back against her chest between her breasts, holding her down. His other hand jerked at her right hip, seating her down hard against him until it was impossible to determine where he ended and she began.

The angle was nearly too painful. She started to say something and he drove himself into her again. This time he didn't stop. He did what he said he'd do, he gave it to her. She couldn't yell anything but gibberish. The pain and the pleasure smashed into each other and became one living, breathing, organic thing. She gasped, crying out.

Leon grabbed her face in one hand and held it. "Don't come for me, Sherry."

The command was painful. It was too hard. Didn't he understand that she had to come? She was burning with it. Sherry grabbed his bleeding back and jerked. "Please!"

"Not yet."

Jesus.

Leon rolled to his back and pulled her over him. And it was too sharp, too deep. She shook her head, whispered, "I can't—," and he jerked her down on him, splitting her in half with the raging greed of it. He lifted her and set her down on him, lifted her and set her down, his biceps bulged with it. He panted, desperate, and she thought she'd never seen anything more beautiful then Leon Kennedy, than all that strength beneath her.

Someone was gasping out _ohgodohgodohgod_ over and over again. It was her. Of course, it was her. But she'd try to deny him. They both knew it. Don't deny me, he'd said. He'd COMMANDED it. His hands rolled her to all fours on the bed.

Don't, she thought desperately, please don't.

But she CRAVED it.

He drove his body into her while she hunkered on all fours for him. And he brought his hand down on her throbbing ass to punish her while he did it. Thrust, smack, gasp. Thrust, smack, gasp. She shoved back against him; he rode into her body like a man possessed. They were trying to kill each other with it.

He curved over her back and pressed their sweaty flesh together. His hand grabbed one of her breasts and squeezed, hard and maddening. Sherry screamed, she screamed, while he hammered his body against her aching ass and filled her full of the pounding heat of him.

And finally, finally, finally he said, hoarsely, "Let go."

And she did.

She did; almost instantly.

She came around his thrusting body screaming. Leon rolled her to her back while she came, bucking, and rode her through it. He rode her like he'd finish the race first and destroy her with it. He rode her and grabbed her arms to put them over her head. He rode her, held her down, and came inside her while she arched and cried for him.

And he collapsed atop her while they both died with it.

Make me yours, she'd demanded. And he had. He had. Because she was in love with him. She was in love with Leon Kennedy.

Lying beneath the sweaty, muscled, panting weight of him…she couldn't find it in her to do anything but yearn for it. Yearn for him….even as the pulsing length of him spilled his possession in the aching chambers of her body. Yearn for him…even as she wrapped her arms and legs around him like an octopus and held on.

Yearn for him…even as they fell asleep sealed together like pieces of a puzzle.

And neither of them could know the horror of what waited for the girl that had bound them together in Raccoon City. They couldn't know what she faced to protect Sherry from the madness that lurked and lingered and longed for her blood. But they would find out…soon enough.


	6. Perversion

**Stage Six: Perversion**

* * *

Six days into her captivity, she was convinced no one was ever coming for her. No one. But how long had he hidden who he was from the world? He was insane. He was a mastermind. He was a monster.

He was a genius.

He could hide her forever until she gave him what he wanted.

She escaped two nights in the row by playing his perfect companion. It galled her, it grated in her soul, but it kept his hands off her. He, it seemed, wasn't interested in rape. Not really. He wanted her to...want him? To come of her own free will?

It was disgusting to think of it. Did he think she'd just...open her thighs and submit? He didn't know who the hell he was dealing with. He thought Chris was stubborn - Chris wept at commercials of homeless kids needing donations. He was a softie inside. Her? She wasn't.

He would only get what he took from her. He would only get it through force. She would NEVER give him anything freely.

The fifth night in - there were no guests. He had her taken to the dining room and left alone. She considered, for handful of moments, running. But she knew what happened if she ran.

The door cracked open - voices followed her. She knew what happened if she ran.

She ran anyway. She couldn't sit there. She just...couldn't. She pushed out of her chair and hit the door at a run. Surprised, the servant with the tray with the water carafe on it didn't have a chance to stop her. She foot swept him, kicked him in the hip, and hit him in the face with his own tray.

She made it to the main foyer before he stopped her. Her hand was on the latch, lifting - when the dart took her in the back of the neck. Claire made a sound of horror and lost the strength in her hands as she slid to the floor.

She awoke on her bed, watching the canopy.

He leaned over the bed to look at her - no glasses now. Just the weird gold and red of his eyes. He looked so calm. She hated him. It BURNED.

"This ends, _Claire,_ when you tell me what I want."

"...fuck off." Quietly. She felt the hammer of her heart. Maybe she was abandoned here. But she was loyal. She'd die and take Sherry to the grave with her, protected.

He sighed, shaking his head, "Always the hero, it seems."

She saw it coming and turned her head away. The needle in her skin. The moment her will crumpled with regret. The rage burned beneath her flesh with stifled heat.

His hand slid into her hair. He tilted her face back toward him. "What do you want, _Claire?_ "

And she hissed, desperately, "To watch your eyes while you die."

He pressed their mouths together. She shivered with hate...but opened her lips. It was a rich kiss, heady, and made her head swirl. He was so soft about it. Almost delicate.

She hated that too.

Her hands lifted to shove him away - and curled in his vest to bring him closer. He smelled like cigars and scotch. He smelled like wood smoke and something darker. She moaned a little in fear of it.

Wesker scooped her hands and laid them over her head. She shook, trembling, even as he moved his mouth to her belly. She stared so hard at the canopy that the little flowers on it started to burn behind her eyes. She shook her head, denying.

"Please...please stop."

She hated the begging. Hated herself for doing it. Hated herself for having a brief moment of wanting to end it. Cowardice. Cowardice wanted her to jump out the window behind her and take all she knew to the grave with her. She was no coward.

And yet...she begged him to stop.

And she hated herself for it.

He lifted his head, smiling lightly. "Where is she?"

Claire shook her head, turning her face away again. His hands skimmed lightly, under her shirt, peeling it up her belly and off her arms. She gripped the headboard above her so hard, it hurt. It hurt and helped clear her head a bit. Maybe she couldn't stop him from touching her...but she could stop herself from touching him back.

She could do that.

His fingers undid the clasp at the front of her torso, freeing her breasts. She whimpered, watching the moonlight on the window. She could endure this. She could endure. She could en-

His mouth settled over one nipple, wetly, lazily. He tugged it into his mouth and playfully palmed her other breast. She jerked, as if he'd electrocuted her, and her hands bumped the headboard into the wall behind her. The pull of his mouth went into her groin and made her wet, almost instantly.

His free hand slid down her belly and into her pants. She shook her head, quaking. "No."

But her hips jerked into his delving fingers as he penetrated her. Gently. Smoothly. He let go of her peaking breast to say, "Tell me what I want, _Claire._ And I'll give you what you want."

Her body bowed, bringing a gasp from her mouth as he stroked her. What did she want? FREEDOM. FREEDOM.

From what?

Him. Freedom from him.

But her body didn't want that. Her body jerked and welcomed him. She shook her head even as she turned it toward him. "Please...let me go."

It boiled out of her mouth with rage and yet...she nipped at his mouth and invited his laughter as he kissed her.

He thumbed her body, he tasted her breasts, he tempted her mouth with kisses. She felt the goosebumps. She felt the warmth spread from her body to her blood. She felt the hate bleed into the need.

She denied it. She denied them both. Her face was a mask of horror and self hatred. "Please...please...don't..."

Please don't what? Stop?

What did she want? Her body spasmed, racing, and came around the symphony of his fingers inside her.

* * *

 **8:00 p.m.**

* * *

She wore such a pretty party dress. It was purple and shimmered. It was a perfect bell with a heart shaped boddess. The perfect curve of her ample bosom was displayed like freckle dusted porcelain.

As she dined, she watched the faces around her.

The beautiful faces.

It was surreal. It was the blonde Nordic god with his endless beauty. Tall and commanding, a warrior with a black heart. Never the white knight, no, the black knight. The Dark Knight. The one that courted the darkness to bring the world to his hand.

Never a prince charming. The handsome face, the laughter, the smiles and charm…lies. Liar. FAKE. He was nothing more than a monster.

Did they know what waited beneath the effortless grace?

Did they know what he offered when the night was long and the torches burning?

 _Claire – consent…consent and I will let you go. Give me what I seek. Relent. Comply. I will offer you the world._

LIAR.

Always the injection now. Every night.

No one was coming. No one knew where she was. She was trapped here…in the arms of the liar. The fake. The dark knight. His victim. His toy.

Around her, dancing. Dancing. The world was dancing now.

Colors and laughter and beautiful gowns. A ball.

 _Would you like to go to the ball, Claire?_

… _yes._

 _Kiss me, Claire. Of your own free will. And I will take you to the ball._

One kiss. Freely given. It had cost her pieces of herself she couldn't understand.

The Dark Knight caught her eye now, watching her. He smiled. He gestured with his hand.

Claire knew, she could resist him here. She could make a scene. She could run from the dining hall and the ballroom and embarrass him.

But if…if she did…the horror of what he would do to her would never end. He would bleed her. He would inject her. He would touch her, stroke her, tease her. She would curse him and cry…and come. His TOY. His puppet. His slave.

She rose. She walked down the length of the table. Beautiful, resplendent. The red of her hair was woven through with crystals and sparkles and butterflies. Beautiful, resplendent.

He took her hand. He guided her to the reflective mirrored floor. She could see them now as they danced. He was effortless at it, smooth, slipping into each step like a professional. He twirled her, swirled her, stole her breath with it.

He danced like a prince…for a demon.

Against her ear, he said, so so softly, "Relent, Claire. Comply. I will give you the world."

The world.

It was beyond this castle. This farce. This lie where he held her. It was beyond him. And beyond the shimmer of bodies and laughter and music.

And the wall where he would bind her – and strip away her soul.

She rolled her face back. He smiled. The blue of his eyes…contacts…clearly. A handsome man. A beautiful prince.

LIAR.

DEMON.

MONSTER.

And she whispered against his perfect mouth, "…fuck…you."

The swirl of skirts. The laughter. It chased them from the room as he dragged her away. The moonlit veranda. The ivy clinging, crawling, swirling up the slick stone. The tinkle and tickle of soft rain around them like a storybook.

A fairytale.

The Prince…and the Unwilling Slave.

He slung her to the stone bench there. Her petticoats tangled around her legs.

She lifted angry eyes to him.

He grabbed her face and tilted it up to him. "Tell me what I need, _Claire._ Tell me. Relent. Comply. Enough of this."

"You think if you say it again…I'll suddenly change my mind? Which part of FUCK YOU did you misunderstand? The fuck? Or the you? You need me to sound it out for you? F-U-C-"

It was swift.

The slap.

He slapped her face.

She spit at him even as it stung. And his fist pulled her hair, tilted her head back, and sneered into her face. "So stupid. So stubborn. Redfields – how I will rejoice when I see the end of you both."

"Oh yeah? DITTO KIDDO."

And she jerked.

Because he'd stabbed her with that fucking needle. She hadn't even seen it. She didn't know it was there. He just stabbed her with it.

It stole her breath.

And her voice came out on a gasp, "…BASTARD!"

She tried to shift away and the bastard knelt at her feet. He threw up her petticoats. She tried to pull back and his hand found the smooth, warm inside of her thigh. She froze. Her eyes went wide.

And he smiled. "Tell me what I want, _Claire."_

She couldn't say no anymore. She could only shake her head now in horror.

The damn women who'd dressed her had left her without panties. She knew why now. She knew. And she was so afraid it rolled off her in waves. It made her head swim.

And then he touched her. He touched the soft heat of her. And she made a small mewl of fear.

"Shall I stop, _Claire?_ The choice is yours. Tell what I need and this stops."

She couldn't speak. Not a word. Her hips shifted away from his touch…her legs opened for him.

And he laughed.

He laughed.

She watched the moonlight on his head now. It bowed between her legs. She shook her head to deny it and her body bucked into his mouth. His mouth.

It delved onto her body like a feast. The party beyond the veranda went on. Swirling dresses, laughter, clinking glasses – masks and merriment. It was peppered by her gasping. It was peppered by the wet sounds of his feasting.

She spilled back on the bench even as she said, "…please stop…"

And her legs opened for more.

Her petticoats settled around his face. Her spine bowed, her hands grasping for his hair. It tunneled there. She yanked at him to dislodge him…she shoved him harder against her for more.

The reluctant slave. The victim.

The whore.

Her body whored for him. She felt him part her, play at her. Tongue in her, on her, fingers and stroking. She was so wet. She was gasping, " . No."

But her body was shaking. Her thighs quaking. Her eyes unable to look away.

One of his hands slid up her body. It caught her throat, it spilled her head back to the moonlight and held her. She felt a fat tear slip down her cheek. The pain of the pleasure, the horror of the want, the body and the mind so far apart…so far away. Cleaved from each other like pieces that were never a whole.

It spilled from her mouth. She felt the red shimmer of it. He curled his fingers in her, found that spot, and stroked it. She denied. Fighting. Fingers jerking him away…fingers rubbing him against the creamy need of her. Her sounds. They were high now, desperate.

"No…I don't…I won't…"

She would. She did. Every time he touched her…she did.

She whispered, "….don't…."

And his tongue curled up in her like a snake. A serpent. A hungry thing.

She came against his mouth with a cry of release. It rolled out of her. She spilled sticky and hot against his delving tongue. It took her, tasted, rolling in the release of her body like he'd swallow her whole.

She shook her head, she tried to pull away, she tried to pull him closer.

Her hands freed her body. It spilled him back.

She shoved him away…and her hands pulled him down.

She whispered, "…oh god, no…" And kissed him. Wet. Tongues and teeth. His laughter in her mouth. Her taste in her mouth.

….her hands on his pants. She was pulling at his zipper. She was trying to slide away. She was pushing and pulling and gasping. And crying.

And coming.

He stilled her, holding her hands to her belly. He gave her his tongue in a rhythm that had her humping in horror and need on that stone bench.

And he said, "Not yet. Not yet…keep resisting me, Claire. Keep resisting. I will destroy you with pleasure."

Oh god.

She believed him.

He left her on the bench. Gasping.

Shaking.

Crying.

Hating.

And still hungry for him.

* * *

 **Post note** : _I use the Prince and the Slave here which originally was written as a tail piece to this story. I'm going to grow Wesker and Claire as obsessive for a little bit so the reader can see her draw to him._


	7. Emasculation

**Stage 7: Emasculation**

* * *

 **Devil's Elbow, Kentucky**

* * *

Sherry was in the kitchen making coffee. The early morning sun was still pink and pretty on the horizon. The eastern sky looked like lava beneath the sea. It was brilliant. The blend of hues was breathtaking. And she saw, now in this moment, the splendor of the raw, untouched, perfect countryside.

She wore a little white nightgown. It was unadorned and simple. It was white cotton and made her feel about twelve years old. Everything she owned had been given to her by the agency. She had never, ever, bought her own wardrobe.

Horrifying to be 22 years old and never gone shopping by yourself.

Shaking her head, she sipped her coffee and watched the world wake up.

She turned away from the pretty little window and gasped. She gasped. And the coffee mug dropped from her hand, hit the floor and shattered with a tinkle of shattering ceramic. Coffee spilled over the tiles and cooled, smelling like mocha delight.

Leon Kennedy was The Immortal because he never died. He faced hordes of nightmares and he just…rose. The Ghost was another of his nicknames. They said he moved like one. She believed them. He was just standing there in the doorway, inches away from her. And she hadn't even heard him move.

The floors in the house creaked like mad. It was INSANE that he'd been able to get around without a peep. Her hand pressed to her collarbone and held there while she calmed her racing heart.

They stared at each other from inches away.

His voice startled her in the encompassing softness of the absence of sound, "Where is your gun, Sherry?"

"...do I need my gun to make coffee?"

Leon tilted his head, studying her. "You always need your gun. Always."

She glanced at him.

The early morning light was kind to him. As if he ever looked anything but beautiful. Would she ever be able to look at him and not feel twelve years old? Of course, in her nightgown, with her hair tangled and loose around her…she did probably look it. So, there was that.

He was…mostly naked. Just a pair of boxer briefs in some shade of blue that was shades darker than his eyes. Mostly naked and beautiful. And each line of muscle, each curve of skin, each sprinkle of hair from nose to toes and ears to ankles was molded, gilded, guided by hands that had carved the greatest sculptures in the world. He made her heart race just fine without scaring her half to death.

Because this…need in her? It scared her all on its own.

"...where is your gun, Leon?"

The loud snap of sound had her jumping. It was there, that enormous Magnum of his, it was just there in his hand. Where had he been keeping it on his mostly naked body? He was many things. He was also, apparently, a wizard. He could conjure things from nothing.

"Never leave anywhere, ever, without your gun, Sherry. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"I can't protect you if you aren't smarter than that."

"I don't need you to protect me."

And now he lifted a brow, mocking. It rolled in her belly and brought her eyes narrow against him. "Don't you?"

"I'm not some fucking little girl, Leon. I don't need you to save me anymore. And I don't need to take my damn gun to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. You're being paranoid."

"Am I? If I was an enemy, right now, right in this moment, how would you stop me? I'm bigger, faster, stronger and better trained. I stood here for...probably eight minutes watching you and you didn't even realize it. They might have trained you but they didn't teach you. Not enough. Not even close to enough. Not to survive in the game we're playing."

He was right. On one hand, he was very right. And yet he wasn't entirely right. He didn't know what she could do. He didn't understand that she would win in a fight with him. He might hit harder, true. But she could take those hits and keep on coming.

That was the gift of the G-Virus.

And apparently, his clearance didn't grant him the knowledge of that. It was interesting to know it. Considering how high up the ladder he was.

"Are you offering to teach me, Leon?"

"Yeah. I'm offering to teach you. If you want to learn."

"I want to learn." She watched him lower the gun in his hands and set it on the kitchen table. She watched him study her. She could see the intelligence on him, the assessment. On one hand, she was his lover; she was the woman he'd molded and held and made his. On the other, she was his protege; the eager student willing to sit at his knee and suffer his cruel tutelage to gain the knowledge and the skill he offered. "I want you to teach me."

She wanted all he had to offer. She wanted _him._ And it made her brave...or foolish. Or both.

She stepped over the coffee on the ground. He waited near the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest. Sherry pushed him against the frame hard enough to startle him.

It pulled a gasp from his mouth.

She put one hand on his arms, holding them against his chest. She put the other one in his hair. He leaned down like he'd kiss her and she blocked him. Surprised, he met her eyes.

She was intensely watching his face.

He liked it. That look on her face. It was...what? It was need. Or want. It was hunger.

No.

It was an obsession.

His face told her to take it. Take what she wanted from him. He'd let her. A powerful man; he'd let her take what she wanted from him. That was the nature of the thing between them. Sometimes owning someone was about give and take.

She wanted to hold him there against the doorframe and force what she felt for him onto him, into him, until it killed them both.

But she was too afraid of herself to do more than stare at him, breathing fast and hard. She whispered, so softly, "Teach me."

Leon moved away from the door frame and into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee. He was so casual about it. So careless. He moved out the back door of the little house and onto the little porch there. It was a brisk morning. There was the soft call of a lark, singing its morning tune with a pretty sound.

He sat down in one of the chairs at the table there on the deck. The wrought iron was cold and delightful on his skin. The little house had neighbors on either side beyond the privacy fence. It had neighbors across the pretty little river that spilled and rolled behind it.

It was a safe house in a safe area not for privacy but because it was centrally located to town. It was only a fool that would attack a safehouse ten blocks from the police station. The exposure was another way it was protected.

He turned his head to find her looking at him.

Leon sipped his coffee.

She had a choice here. She could go inside and dress for the day. She could get a cup of coffee and join him at the table. She could go back to bed, if she chose.

He watched her face.

And said, "Come here."

And he took away her choice.

Sherry moved out onto the cold porch. The wood was cool and tempting under her bare feet. She moved toward him.

Leon said, quietly, "Stop." When she was a foot away.

She did, waiting. He held her eyes and intoned, "Lift your nightgown and touch yourself for me."

Jesus.

Sherry hesitated. She glanced around. It was early, yes, but they were SURROUNDED by other houses. Surely he was kidding.

He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim. That expression…it was taunting. It was cool. It was daring her to say no. It was daring her to follow the command. His face said he didn't care either way she went with it.

Sherry lifted her nightgown with one hand. She wore nothing beneath it. Nothing. She was utterly bare.

It thrilled him.

She saw it. She glanced at his body and could see how much it thrilled him. She wanted to cross the last foot to him and put her hand in his pants.

Leon's mouth twisted to the side, smirking.

And then she touched herself. It was hesitant. It was almost chaste. The delicacy of her enthralled him. She was so virginal when she moved. So sweet. Her innocence was so perfectly, painfully, beautifully corruptible. It made him throb for her.

He watched her while she touched herself. She slid her fingers against her soft little slit. She touched herself between her folds so sweetly. And he said, quietly, "Put your fingers inside yourself."

Sherry held his eyes. She bit her lips. She glanced around. She couldn't have him spanking her. NOT HERE. Not in the open.

Jesus.

The power was heady from it. She slid her fingers into her waiting body. She was slick inside. Not yet ready for anything but inquisitive exploring. But her body welcomed the questing of her. She shivered; her mouth opened on a gasp.

Nodding, one of those beautiful eyes hidden behind that shaggy blonde hair of his, Leon added, "Use your other hand to stroke your clit."

Her other hand slid down her body. But the nightgown fell forward and covered her.

And she knew what he would say now.

She knew it.

"Take it off."

God.

Sherry shivered. She shivered. He lifted a brow as she hesitated. A house close by opened a door and she heard a dog released into a yard.

Her hands stopped their touching of her to grab her nightgown and pulled it over her head. The cold air tortured her pretty pale skin. Her nipples were turgid now and begging. The goosebumps on her skin excited him.

He commanded her again. "Touch yourself. Don't come, Sherry. I mean it."

She touched herself. She did it. She had to. She couldn't have him spanking her outside. Not where anyone could see. This was a job for her. If she drew attention to herself, it could be trouble for both of them. Didn't he understand that?

Of course, logically, she could just go back inside. He wasn't going to hurt her. Not really. She knew that.

Right?

It was a game.

His face was so impassive. So calm. But his EYES. His eyes said it wasn't a game. His eyes said he was serious. His eyes said he owned her.

And it felt like fire in her body to know it.

She played with her body. She stroked, she flicked, she lingered. She knew how she liked it. She'd been doing it to herself for so long. She'd always, always, always pictured him while she did it. And now he was here. He was here. And he was watching her. "Tell me how much you want me, Sherry. Tell me now."

She held his gaze, brazen in a way that scared her. And her voice said, hoarsely, "Do you like to watch me touch myself, Leon? I always think of you while I do it. Always."

It humbled him. It enthralled him. He studied her eyes to find the lie of it. And there was none.

She whispered, stroking her sensitive nub, thumbing her body. He watched her hands move, shifting on the chair where he sat as his erection throbbed for her. "I was so young. So young. They…oh god…" She found a spot inside herself that was so good…so bad. And she almost came. But she stilled her hands and breathed until it passed. She was so slick and tight around her own fingers. She eased back on her clit to avoid going over the edge. And finished her statement, "They took you away. But your face…your face…it's all I could see. All I could see for years. I have a notebook filled with pictures of your face that I drew. I drew it. Because it was my obsession for so long."

She shivered, close now, so close. The look on his face. The fascination. The want. The longing. It was so raw. It was so hot. It was so enthralling. He was listening to her, watching her, wanting her and waiting for her to finish. Finish herself. Finish her tale. "Every time I put my fingers in myself…I pretended it was…you…"

She was panting, panting, shaking and quivering.

Leon answered, gruffly, "Do you want me to put my fingers in you, Sherry?"

"…oh god… _yes…"_ A hiss. A quivering hiss. A shivering hiss. "Please."

She gasped, jerking against her hands. And his voice instructed her again, gravely and deep, "Come to me."

Come for him?

She gasped, shaking. No. Come TO me. He wanted her to come to him. Not for him. Didn't he understand she'd been coming TO him for years?

But she moved, she moved, on shaking legs.

He said, "Straddle my legs."

And she parted her legs to walk forward until she was standing over him, legs spread, eyes on his face. That face. She craved him.

He lifted a hand and slid his fingers between hers where they touched her. And he pushed their joined hands into her waiting body. Slick, wet, tight she closed around their dual assault with heedless glee. Her free hand stopped stroking her clit to grab the side of his face. She almost slapped him when she grabbed him so hard. She heard it echo. Her thumb aligned beside his ear. Her fingers curled into his hair.

And his hoarse, hoarse, hoarse voice whispered, "Don't come, Sherry. Not yet."

They worked her body together, fucking, fingering, finding that spot that stole her breath. She gasped, arching. "Please…please…Leon…"

It was his name on her mouth that did it. He was done for her. She was, without a doubt, the most fascinating creature he'd ever seen. Her willingness to please him, ease him, tease him…it aroused in ways that had no name. It was sinful, sating, wetting and bedding him in a single felling shift of want. His other hand slid up her torso and cupped her breast. He could feel her racing heart.

He felt her body tighten around their thrusting fingers. His palm tweaked her nipple, tugging and he whispered, "Don't, Sherry. Don't."

But she couldn't get away from his eyes. She couldn't escape his fingers and hers as they brushed and pressed and pushed. She twisted her fingers in his hair and jerked. She drove her tongue into his mouth and her body down on their hands. And she came, wetly, needy, grunting and humping and fucking his mouth with her tongue.

He let her. He let her tongue plunge into his mouth. His eyes stayed open in wonder, in want, watching her face while she rode their hands and raped his mouth. Even here, even now, her innocent want of him was refreshing. It was unbridled. It wasn't calculated. It didn't offer a whore's skill. It offered a girls untried, untested, unparalleled exploration.

The hand tugging her little breast rolled around her body. She was still coming, still kissing, still gasping as he brought his hand down on her.

The slap was loud in the quiet morning. It echoed. It stung. She was still pink from the night before. And it surprised her enough that she…slapped him.

It wasn't on purpose. It was more reaction than that. He hurt her; she slapped him.

And that slap echoed in the morning.

Horrified, she drew back from thrusting her tongue in his mouth. His cheek was pink from it. Her bottom was stinging. She was guessing his face was too.

Sherry whispered, hoarsely, "I'm so s—"

But he didn't care. He didn't want to hear I'm sorry. She knew that. He grunted and grabbed her throat, stealing her words and scaring her. He scared her. And she liked it.

His other hand shifted and grabbed her hip. She watched his face, saw the flash of excitement and anger, and he jerked her down. Her quivering thighs couldn't resist. She couldn't gasp, it was caught by his gripping fist. He seated himself inside of her in one angry thrust.

It hurt.

The angle was sharp and she wasn't ready. She was wet from her orgasm. She was. She was wet. But she wasn't ready for that. Not yet. And she was still sore from the night before it seemed. She made a sound of distressed pain and pushed against his chest.

Leon grunted and shifted. He lifted and put her on the table. It was cold on her bottom but worked like a balm to soothe the ache of it. His hand held her throat, his other held her hip. He angled her against his body.

She whispered, "Don't. Wait. Don't."

Don't wait. It sounded about right. She was throbbing around him. Throbbing with soreness. The hand on her hip grabbed one of her knees and drove it back. It opened her body to him. It put him deeper in her.

She pushed at him even as her body pulled him deeper into her aching soreness. She spasmed around him. Her hands grabbed his face.

He hissed it now, "I said don't resist me, Sherry."

Of course. Of course, he'd said that.

She whispered, "Please."

Please, what? Please don't? Please don't stop? He watched her face. She shook her head. "Please."

And his hand on her throat pushed her back completely on the table. He pushed her flat on her back on the cold iron table. His hands shifted and pushed her knees back and open.

Her hands flailed and grabbed. She grabbed his wrists while he opened her. She grabbed his wrists while he split her open. He didn't just fuck her. He put her knees back against her chest and tried to kill her. He was trying to rip her open.

She was sure of it.

Sherry screamed. She screamed on the table in the backyard of that little house where she was trying to pretend she didn't want it. Didn't want him. And didn't want the pain he forced into her body like a sword.

She shouted his name, shouted, "Stop! Don't stop! GOD!"

And her hands grabbed the backs of her knees and replaced his. She did it. She kept herself open to him. Don't resist me, he'd said, and she didn't. She gave him everything she had. Teach me, she'd said, and he taught her to love the pain of the want for him that bled and burned and robbed reason from her in a skin-prickling rush.

His hand shifted to grab her hips. He jerked her in against his body harder, faster, deeper. It was wet, slapping and smacking and striking like a hammer of flesh. The pain was awesome, it was awful, it was amazing. It struck against the pleasure in her belly and exploded.

It came out of her mouth in a keening wail. She hated and loved and craved him. She craved him. Because he rode her body harder, harder, forced himself into her so far she felt him thrusting in her chest. And she was moaning now, moaning and bucking and holding on.

No no no, she moaned. It was too much. It hurt. It was too much pain, too much pleasure. He shoved the release of it into her body and forced her over the edge. She was so wet around him that it was like a slip and slide of slick greed. He rode in now like he was made for her body. Rode in while her body went so tight, so tight, sucking him with mindless fervor and desperate feral need. He laughed, laughed, and dropped his mouth to kiss her.

He grabbed handfuls of her hair and jerked her up. She let go of her legs, quaking, shaking, spastically flopping on the table with each painful wave of release. He caught her around the waist and carried her into the house with one arm.

She felt like a dead thing in his arm. But he put her against the counter in the kitchen, forced her face down on it. Her breasts smashed against the cool granite. Her hands scrambled to find something to hold on to and he lifted her hips until her feet dangled off the floor and shoved himself into her dripping sheath.

He had to work for it. Wet or not, she was tight from use, from overuse, from engorgement and release and need. Her hands finally settled on slapping him. She reached around behind her to slap his ass. She slapped his invading body while he held her down on the counter with a hand on her back. She slapped his hip…and it gripped as she found that rhythm in her. He hammered her into the counter while she dug her nails into his ass.

Her other hand came up behind her shoulder and grabbed a handful of his hair. He came collapsed around her back and kissed her when she turned her head. Wet. Tongues. Teeth. Temptation.

He eased his fucking. He eased it back. He eased it until it was smooth, slow, gentle in her aching body. He tongued her mouth and slid in and out of her body while she throbbed around him. The sweetness, the shift of it, was the most amazing thing she'd ever felt.

It stole her breath. And it forced her pulsing, pushing, needing body to come again. Just like that. Sherry gasped musically into his mouth. And her body tightened like a fist against his cock.

Leon gave it what it wanted. He pumped her full of himself. And her sore, aching, quaking little sheath devoured the sticky spurt of his release with a desperate sucking.

Sherry made a tortured little sound in her throat.

She'd come here to find a target. She'd found Leon Kennedy in her living room. And he kept finding her buttons, her weaknesses, her wants. He kept finding her soul.

And he kept fucking her raw.

How did you get out of bed with a man determined to possess you?

And would you ever really want to?

She was kinda afraid she was going to fail her mission because she was constantly impaled on Leon Kennedy's cock.

…she couldn't think of a better reason to fail anything…ever…EVER.

She only knew that she wanted to feel the ache of him inside of her…forever.

His arms shifted; he rolled her around on the counter. He lifted her against him. Sherry put her arm around his neck and held on while he carried her from the kitchen and sat down in the recliner. Did she curl around him on his lap like a...child? Like something.

And he stroked her hair.

Those possessing hands of his soothed her now. He stroked her, petted her, and when he spoke, he spoke of the mission. She listened, stroking a hand over his sweaty, taut belly while he spoke. And she craved him. She craved him.

And she was desperately afraid that even when it was done, even it as over and she was back in her cage...she would never be able to let him go.

She whispered, holding him. "Teach me."

And she meant to teach her how to survive. How to survive it all. But she didn't know if she'd survive him. And it wasn't something he could teach her at all.

* * *

 ** _Post note:_**

 _We see a parallel between the horror of what is happening to Claire and the commanding beauty of what is happening with Sherry and Leon. Both are, in a way, domination. But one is clearly not pleasing both parties. I'm hoping it shows the drastic difference in the darkness that is our own desires._

 _I like Leon here. Admittedly, I like the powerful version of him. I so often write him broody, moody, and conflicted. He's not here. He's just...hot. And in control. It works. HOPEFULLY!_

 _I'm so nervous writing this one! I hope it plays out alright. As always, leave it, love it, review it and let me know what rocks, what sucks, and what rules._

 _Slainte!_


	8. Conversion

**Stage Eight: Conversion**

* * *

 **On the horns of a nightmare...**

* * *

At some point, she'd fallen asleep and woken up Albert Wesker's companion. She was one of the "them"; those horrid people she'd come to hate. She was like Miracella, his handmaiden - a woman so cantankerous that she flayed the flesh from her victims for his pleasure and her own when commanded.

She was like his steward, Lars, who daily went into the village and returned with some poor soul that disappeared into the castle and never emerged again. She could hear the screaming. She could hear the crying. She could never find the victim.

Claire tried. She tried. She combed the hallways when he wasn't with her and searched. But he was brilliant. He was nefarious. He was good at hiding. Hadn't he been hiding in plain sight for years in Raccoon City?

The second attempt she made to run got her all the way outside to the stables. No cars. No escape. No horses. Just a stable filled with hay.

He'd caught her on foot a half mile away when she'd taken off in the cold. Barefoot. Desperate. Shamed. Shamed, because he'd barely touched her before she'd collapsed and given up.

That was the scary part. She was losing her fight. He'd tossed her over his shoulder and walked, carelessly, the half mile back to his castle. He didn't send his goons. He always collected her himself. He almost, never, had to say a word.

She didn't know how much time had passed. It might have been days. It might have been years. It might have been moments.

The second time she ran, he attached a "watcher" to her. A pretty girl who was terrified and obeyed him. She tracked Claire around the estate and wouldn't leave. She followed her into the restroom to watch her pee. It was humiliating.

Nightly, he came to her bed. He promised he'd stop the injections if she gave him what he wanted. He promised, he'd stop the injections if she submitted to him without fighting.

 _Freely given, Claire. Freely. And I will give you the world._

She didn't want his world. She wanted her own. But what was her world? Was anyone looking for her? Did anyone care?

She felt like she'd been in his world forever.

She escorted him to dinner nightly. She didn't even fight now. She did whatever it took to avoid the injection. But somehow, someway - she'd end up with it in her neck by nightfall. She couldn't let him touch her without it. She just couldn't. She fought so hard.

She tried to stop it. But she ended up coming apart beneath him from his hands and his mouth.

He hadn't fucked her. She felt like, maybe, he was waiting for her to beg for that. She would rather DIE than beg Albert Wesker to take fuck her. She stared at herself in the mirror and said it aloud, "You are not his."

But she didn't really feel like her anymore either.

* * *

She sat for three hours in a small chair across from his desk. He worked. He made calls. He ignored her.

And he finally hung up and said, "Are you ready to comply?"

Claire shuddered. She shook her head: no.

His hand swirled the needle on the desk. She shook her head: no.

And he said, "Relent. Comply. Or I will destroy you."

No one was coming for her. She was here. She was here with him. The dark prince. The Liar. THE FAKE.

The thing she dreamed of when she slept. Her body bowing and bucking in the sheets. Her mind weeping and dying in her head. Her soul torn and tempted and trying to flee from him. Her hatred and her need warring inside of her.

She was afraid. She was afraid she was losing who she was. She was afraid…she was becoming his.

He lifted the needle. He moved around the desk.

She was shaking like a leaf. She stared at the window beyond his desk. It was snowing.

He grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. He put the needle to her throat. And she yelled, "WAIT! WAIT! JUST WAIT!"

He waited, watching her.

Those sunglasses.

She hated him.

Her hands shifted. She grabbed his zipper. His mouth crooked up in a half smile.

"What's this?"

She shook her head. He kept ahold of her hair. Her hands jerked down his . She reached inside to find him.

He set the needle down on the desk.

He kept her hair in his hands.

She'd do ANYTHING to avoid that needle.

Anything.

She spilled the heady length of him into her grasp. Long and pale. Thick and veiny against a nest of fragrant hair. He scooped back the other side of her hair.

And she opened her mouth to him.

The taste of him disgusted her. It make her gag. She tried to fight against her own actions. No drug now. Just her.

He pushed her down on him.

She fought the reflex to push away.

And she opened her throat to him.

He slid into her mouth, into her lips, the sticky slide of her saliva eased the way. She went part way and came back. Part way and came back.

And he said, "No."

And pushed her down on him completely.

He went to the back of her throat and down it. She gagged. Her hands grappled at his thighs to stop the assault. But he held her there, plunged past her limits, throbbing in her aching throat. She moaned, tears springing from the pain of it.

And he rode back so she could breathe again.

She gasped around the length of him. She pushed at his thighs to free herself.

And he said, "No. Do you want the injection, _Claire?"_

She hated him. She hated him. She hated that she shivered now. SHE shivered…for him. And hated herself.

Her hands shifted to his hips. She angled herself. And drove her mouth down on him now. Fast, wet, slick. She stook the meat of him into her aching throat with each plunge.

All the way. All in.

One hand slid into his pants to cup the needy weight of him. She rolled him. She drove her mouth down. She punished him with the press of teeth from time to time. He grunted, twisting his fingers in her red lockes.

He let her go. When she hesitated, he drove her back on him.

She shifted in the chair. She looked up the line of his body. He was watching the fat length of him shove forcefully into her aching jaws.

She thought , desperately, that he took FOREVER to come. COME, she cried in her head, so I can run away and throw up and die. COME.

And he pulled out of her throat.

She gasped, gagging a little at the pain of it.

She leaned away from him, trying to relearn how to breathe.

He slid the sticky, slick head of himself against the seam of her lips. He used the fat length of himself to lightly slap her face. Jesus. She trembled.

She spat, "Hurry up! Damn you!"

And he laughed. He laughed. He answered, "Will you comply?"

She shook her head: no.

And he pushed himself back into her throbbing mouth.

She was sore in her throat now. He was too big. And the angle too sharp. And the ride in and out too painful. She fought against it and he pushed her fully down on him again. He held her there. She grunted, gagging, and he rode back to give her air.

She slapped his thighs, protesting. And he grunted, "Finish me, _Claire._ Or I will put the injection into you. I will have you pull down your pants and fuck me. DO IT."

Jesus.

She went fast, hungry, moaning and taking it. She drove her mouth down like a wild thing. His hands slid out of her hair. They slid down, down, and cupped her breasts. He slid them inside her tank top and cupped them beneath her bra. He plucked her nipples, swirled her in his palms. And helped her drive him into the back of throat.

She moaned. She gasped. He tugged on her and had it going from tits to groin. She hated him.

And he came.

Unprompted. Unexpected.

She drove her mouth down on him and he just…went. He shot into the back of her throat so fast. It was thick and sticky and salty. And HOT. It burned. It hurt. It brought tears to her eyes again.

He ground her there as far as she could go. She fought. She gasped. She took it.

And he jerked out of her mouth while she gasped, shaking.

And finished by painting the pale mounds of her cleavage with the paint of him.

She shuddered….and hated him.

She was nearly empty now. Nearly numb. She was afraid all that would remain when it was over, was the ghost of Claire Redfield - and the power of Albert Wesker.


	9. Inversion

**Stage Nine: Inversion**

* * *

 **Devil's Elbow, Kentucky**

* * *

Across the wide open field, the world resembled a painting. The bowl of the sky was filtered through a lense of clouds and clear blue. The setting sun cast the world in shades of shadow and red. They circled each other, the girl and the man that faced her.

The cool coming fall tickled over their faces; tickling like a playful child's caress. It touched the shaggy blonde of his hair and tossed it, turning it almost pink and orange in the dying light. He had just enough of an unshaven spread of a growing beard on his beautiful face to rough it up, making him look masculine and harder. And the failing day made those eyes of his the color of the ocean, depthless and breathtaking. He wore a v-neck t-shirt in a good shade of cranberry. It was snug enough to highlight the strong, toned, sleek muscle of his arms and paired nicely with those deconstructed jeans of his that hugged all the right places on that body.

Sherry had her yards of blonde hair twisted and twirled up in pigtails at the back of her head. She wore her little white t-shirt and jeans. They were both barefooted for speed and response. As good as his word, he was teaching her what he knew.

They'd spent hours out here flipping and rolling; boxing and brawling. She understood, finally, why they'd taken him all those years ago to train him to be an agent. He had a natural affinity for battle. It was as inherent in him as laughter. He had an eye for the fight. He had an innate ability to move just a moment ahead, just a split second faster, harder, smoother. He lived, not by luck, but by skill and response and hard work.

How did she explain to him that she would survive for other reasons?

How did she explain that she was…different?

"Whoever trained you failed to teach you the most important thing of what we do here." Leon circled her and she pivoted, following him. "The things we face? They don't respond like humans do."

Quietly, Sherry queried, "How so?"

"BOW's aren't human. They don't think, move, feel. They only operate on basic function of the infected brain: hunger. That hunger is predicated on the idea that when they kill, when they feed, they will be whole again. But even that? Even that simple idea? Is giving these things too much of an emotional baseline. They are monsters, Sherry. And monsters don't feel anything."

Her heart shivered in her chest. "Infected monsters?"

"Infected monsters. Anything with that mutated virus in it is a monster. It's what the whole purpose of thee construction it was based on. The idea of creating a weapon. A weapon doesn't cry. It doesn't care. It just kills."

Sherry lifted a hand to rub at the pain in her chest. "A weapon just destroys."

"Exactly. And to fight that? You have to be better. Faster. Smarter. Because most of the time? The weapons created are stupid. But sometimes they make one that isn't. And those? Those are terrifying."

"…a weapon that is smart enough to best you?"

Leon paused in his pacing to look at her face. She was so quiet. Through the whole of their training here, she'd been an active participant. She'd been fast and brutal and intelligent. She poised, she paused, she kept pace with him like nothing he'd ever seen. She had the talent to thrive in their field. If he could just teach her the drive for it, she'd go far.

Some of that would come with age. Some would come with active participation in improvement. Some of it would come with nearly losing your ass once. Brushing death too close had a tendency to make a mortal into a survivor. She'd been a girl in Raccoon City. She wasn't a girl now. But she was untested, untried, and hadn't ever seen combat.

That would be where she was born in blood. She'd baptize herself in the sweat, stink, and stifling slap of survival and find her strength. Objectively, she was a small woman. She was built slim and petite. Size was not her friend when it came to battle. So, she needed to be smarter to make up for the lack of strength. She'd have to play to her own personal attributes to make up for the deficit of size and strength. She was fast, she was nearly brilliant at anticipating where he'd be, and she was agile. She could outrun, outsmart, and probably out gun any opponent that allowed her the edge.

But she needed to know how to survive the ones she couldn't as well.

She was watching him so quietly now. And what was that on her face? Sadness? Why?

He started to ask her what was on her mind and she swung at him. It was completely unexpected it. She planted her feet and swung a hook at his face.

His arm came up to block and she didn't stop. She drilled his side with her other arm. And then? Well, she just moved. Although moved was a mild word.

She spun back and threw an elbow at his face. He blocked her and she hooked his ankle and jerked. She grabbed the back of his neck and threw him to the ground. Leon hit on his back, already rolling up and back to his feet.

Sherry drew back her foot and kicked him as he rolled to his feet. She kicked him square in the chest. It hurt. She put some power behind it. It stole his breath and caused him to stumble. He caught her ankle and twisted it, tossing her away.

She came at him like a storm now. She didn't pull anything. She rolled low and swept her leg at his. Leon leaped over it. He grabbed for her throat and she knocked his arm away, came up under it, and grabbed him around the hips. She literally threw him to his back on the ground.

When he rolled, she put her boot on his back and held him down.

Surprised, face down, he said, "That's what I'm talking about. Where has that been all afternoon?"

Sherry said nothing. She offered him a hand up.

He brushed off the dirt on his shirt and looked down at her. What was that look on her face?

"What does your clearance tell you about me, Leon?"

He considered, studying her. "Nothing. I don't have access to Simmons' files. I logged inquiries in the beginning; when they took you. But no one ever told me anything. Claire kept me abreast of things. She made sure I knew you were ok."

Sherry nodded and considered him. Another brush of cool breeze ruffled his hair. His mouth looked smooth, soft, and pink in the slumbering light. She fisted her hands into his t-shirt and pulled him down to her.

A smooth kiss, soft, and without pressure. When he started to increase that pressure, she shook her head and stepped into him. His arms curled around her body; hers slid up to cup his face. She kissed him the dying light of the day and it shivered, gently, between them.

When she drew back, he cupped her face. And for him? It was a surprisingly gentle gesture. "Tell me."

"…I can't. I can't tell you."

They locked eyes for a long moment and she finally added, "But I can show you."

Her fingers slid up his chest to the shoulder holster he wore. It was good dark leather and had his initials etched into it. It had his big Magnum and his combat knife. It seemed Leon Kennedy was never without both within his reach.

She unhooked the knife and dropped it into her hand.

Curious, he studied her face.

She rolled the heavy hilt in her hand. "What is this?"

He was quiet, watching her. And his voice was low. "It's a zero tolerance knife."

"Zero tolerance?"

"Yes."

"A curious choice for a man who battles monsters." She looked at his face now. So cool. So composed. He was unflappable. She'd heard his humor was legendary. She'd yet to see it. He was so very controlled with her. Even his lovemaking had been about control. Was she nothing more than a thing that he owned?

Was she a knife in his holster?

Simmons saw her as one. Did she really believe she was anything more to Leon Kennedy?

"Do you have zero tolerance, Leon?"

"…presumably."

"For monsters?"

"Tell me what's wrong, Sherry. I'm not a mind reader."

They held eyes again. Sherry lifted the little five inch blade between them. "I can't. Words won't work here. You have to see it."

"See what?" He was watching her so coolly. So controlled. She wanted to take it from him.

"What I can do."

And now she saw it. She saw, for just a moment, the flash of something like panic on his face. He must have realized what she meant to do.

"What can you do?"

"This." And she rolled that little knife toward her.

"Sherry!" He grabbed her arm but it didn't matter. Not anymore. She thrust the knife in her stomach. Hard.

"Oh my god!" Horrified, panicking, he thrust his hand on the wound around the knife. His other arm spilled her back against it as he lowered her to the ground. She watched his face, breathing sharp and fast around the pain of it. No control now. No. He didn't look cool. He looked terrified. "Sherry, jesus, why!?"

He was putting pressure on her stomach. She heard him hiss as the knife cut his hand. He kept the pressure on her bleeding belly even as he bled himself. Sherry gasped, shuddering with the pain of it. "Pull the knife out, Leon." She whispered it.

He glanced at her face. "Are you kidding?! You'll bleed out."

"Pull the knife out, Leon. Trust me."

He studied her face but he didn't move. So, she did. She jerked the knife clean of her belly and it cut his hand as she did it. He threw both hands down on her belly now to push. "Sherry! What the fuck are you doing here!?"

Touched by the concern, Sherry pushed his hands away from her. "Stop it! Look! Look at the wound, Leon!"

"What!?"

"Look!" She lifted her shirt to show him. She wiped aside the blood. His eyes latched onto the weeping, gushing little open mouth of a wound.

"Sherry we have to get you to the hospital."

"NO! Just watch!"

And then? That little open mouth of a wound started to knit. It started to close. It latched and leeched to the other side and regrew. Sherry gasped, jerking with pain from it. In moments, her little belly was covered in blood but healed.

She was whole.

Leon lifted his eyes to her face. And there was nothing but shock now in his. She said, softly, "Yeah. Yeah. You and Claire injected me with DEVIL. You stopped the further mutation. Maybe. But you didn't stop it all. Do you understand, Leon?"

He was so quiet, watching her face.

"I'm a B.O.W, Leon. I'm the monster. I'm the thing you fight." She held those eyes as the last vestiges of daylight slipped beneath the burgeoning horizon and fled. She held them while the world went purple and pale with twilight. "I'm the thing you kill, Leon Kennedy."

He said nothing.

She rolled away and rose. The white t-shirt was stained red with her blood. She glanced at his face once more but he was looking away toward the rising darkness. Without another word, she moved back toward the house.

Sherry stripped off her bloody clothes and climbed into the shower. The boiling heat of it washed away the lingering stickiness of her display but it couldn't touch the regret that stemmed from knowing she'd likely ruined things out there. She hadn't wanted him to know. Why?

Was it because she knew, knew, KNEW that a man who fought monsters wouldn't want to love one?

The regenerative powers of the embryo she'd carried seemed to be the greatest of things she possessed. She was slightly faster, slightly better than your average human; true. But the Wolverine type regeneration was her greatest gift. It was enough. It marked her as OTHER. It made her aware she was no longer human.

Not exactly.

As she stepped out into the bedroom, she found him leaning in the door way waiting for her. He'd lost the shoulder holster and was in his jeans and t-shirt. He didn't look afraid. He looked…edible.

Sherry held his gaze with the towel wrapped around her. "It's ok. Really. Not even Claire knew about it. It's not something that is broadcasted through the world. Most of the time? It's innocuous enough. I even forget it's there."

Liar.

She rolled a shoulder in a shrug and moved to her suitcase to gather clothing.

"That's why they've kept you hidden for so long."

His quiet statement startled her. She jumped a little and finally rose with clothes in her arms. She moved to the bed to lay them out. "Yes. They've been experimenting. They take blood and do god knows what with it. Probably building vaccines and designing BOWs. Simmons is…he's been kind to me. But he's only concerned with protecting the USA. He doesn't care about me, really. Save for having me be a means to an end. When I got hurt the first time and healed it, in minutes, he looked like he might weep from happiness."

She stared at the wall while she spoke. He watched her face. She sounded so calm, so simple. It was like she was telling a story about someone else. But her face was so very sad.

"I never had any friends. Not real ones. I had tutors. I had scientists that came. None spoke to me about anything but to give me instructions. Claire was the only friend I had. That's what it means when your parents are monsters and they make you one. It means you have no one who cares about you. Not really."

Shrugging again, Sherry moved to pick up her boots and carry them to the bed.

"I could have told Claire about me. But she'd probably react like everyone else."

Quietly, he asked, "How's that?"

"Like you're reacting right now. Like I'm rotten. Like I'm broken or sick." Sherry turned to pick up the bra on the bed. "Like I'm a monster. Because I am. And monsters don't feel anything. So, I'm used to those reactions."

He felt the twin fangs of regret and remorse for his speech out there in the field. He knew, now, what she'd taken from it. He also knew that, after all this time, he could still be wrong as hell about all of it.

Sherry said, "We can extract Burns as soon as it gets dark. We'll be on a plane by morning with the mission done."

He was so quiet.

So silent.

She felt the rejection of it like a knife in her belly. But this one? She couldn't heal the damage. It just kept on bleeding.

Sherry lifted her hands to her face and pressed.

In the doorway, it broke him to see it. What kind of life had she known? The sweet kid he'd rescued in Raccoon City had become a woman. Yes. A beautiful, kind, expressive woman who was so lonely it was palpable. She'd spent her teenage years locked in a prison without any friends or family or hope. She'd spent them drawing pictures of a wet behind the ears rookie cop that had had more guts than brains.

That rookie had become the best in his field. And he still had more guts than brains.

He'd been trying to teach her. He'd been trying to possess her. That beautiful, haunting, desperate innocence had enthralled him. But this? This was the most real he'd ever seen her. She was so lonely.

And so tired of being alone.

Through her hands, she spoke softly, "Can you just go? Please? I'm sorry. Just…for awhile. I need to be alone. I'll be ready to go after Burns in…just a minute. I just need a minute."

The silence was her answer.

And the doorway of the room was empty.

She put her face back in her hands and made a small sound of grief.

Of course, he'd left. Why would he stay? To comfort a monster? What had he said? Infected blood made weapons. She was a weapon. And weapons didn't stand in a towel and weep.

Sherry took a deep breath.

He looped his hands around her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. She made a sound of surprise and opened her eyes. He was utterly, completely, and totally soft while standing there in front of her. And her blood yearned so hard, so fast, it stole her breath.

He said, calmly, "There are no monsters in this room. None. There's just a girl and an idiot."

Quietly, Sherry remarked, "I'm not an idiot."

Sherry Birkin had just called him a girl.

Leon Kennedy. The Immortal. The Ghost. She had just called him a girl.

And now he laughed. He laughed. And it was the first real time she'd seen it. Hadn't she mentioned his humor to herself before?

"Right in this moment? I think I might be both." He studied her face. "What do you want, Sherry?"

Sherry turned and opened her suitcase. She pulled out her notebook and tossed it on the bed in front of him. "Look. Look in there."

He picked it up and leafed through it. And each page, each perfect page, was lovely in execution and skill. She had a steady and suggestive hand. She had a good eye. She saw what others missed. She saw emotion on his face, in his eyes, on his lips.

He lifted his head to look at her.

And her heart stopped. Because he looked at her through all that shaggy hair. He looked at her behind the veil of that perfect hair with those sea foam eyes of his. And she'd never, ever, be able to understand what was on his face. He was just that good.

So she went with brutal truth.

"You're all I want. All I know how to want. I wasn't just a girl in Raccoon City, Leon. I was in love with you. Then, in between, now. Don't look at me like I have some kind of Stockholm Syndrome. Or like it's a white knight complex. Don't look at me like I'm not fully aware of what it means to spend your days and your nights and your hours fantasizing about a man you knew for little more than eighteen hours. I know it's insane. It's insane to be able to heal knives in my body too. But I can. And I did. And I do."

They held eyes. Hers were wide and determined. His were somehow soft and yielding.

"I don't think you know me at all, Sherry. I'm rude. I'm occasionally OVERTLY lazy. I don't wash laundry."

She lifted a brow at him.

"Oh yeah. I don't wash laundry. I send it out. Or I throw it away."

"You…throw away Armani shirts?"

Leon shrugged, shifting in the Armani he was currently wearing. "So? It's just clothes. I can buy more. I have plenty of money. Buttloads of it. I came from money. I make lots of it. I'm the laziest thirty two year old man you've ever met."

And now she looked unconvinced.

"Oh it's true. I live in a penthouse apartment so I don't have to take care of a yard. I order take out food so I don't have to cook. I CAN cook. I just don't. I don't clean my own place and I rarely bother to date. I work out…clearly. Constantly. And I think I may own every single DVD ever created. EVER. Because you know what I do on a Friday night?"

She studied his face.

"A thousand sit ups and I binge watch episodes of either House, M.D. or Grey's Anatomy."

And now she laughed. She laughed a lot. She shook her head and laughed. "Shut up. Now you're just trying to make me laugh."

"Seriously? You think so? That McDreamy dude? Total fucking idiot. What do girls like about him?"

"Probably his shaggy hair."

And now Leon was grinning, grinning. "You calling me McDreamy?"

"...no comment." She grinned back at him. "But continue."

Amused, Leon said, "I've done plenty of stuff. But I also NEVER get to finish a vacation. Ever. EVER. So, I don't date seriously. I sleep around and enjoy it. I like girls. I like looking at them. I like fucking them."

Oh. That made her shift a little. She looked upset a little. But he was going for brutal truth himself here so he kept at it. "I won't feed you some line about you being my first woman. Or even the first girl I threw down on that I barely knew. Although you were, definitely, the first I threw down on that was a total stranger. Which should tell you how I feel about you."

Sherry held his gaze now, enthralled by him.

"After Raccoon City, Claire and I tried dating for awhile. We gave it a good run. She's a good girl and I cared about her a great deal. But you can't really love someone long term in this business. So we broke it off pretty quickly. No hard feelings. And we're as good a friends as any two people can be." He looked at her face to impress the point on her, "I think you've idolized me for a long time. You've made me something I'm not. I'm just a man. Just a man. And I don't want you to make me more than that."

Sherry felt the racing thump of her heart. She saw him. She did. She saw him as the girl who'd lain in his arms dying while she turned into something else. She saw him as the girl who had pictures in her bedroom that Claire would bring her. She saw him.

Didn't he realize that?

Sherry said, "I have pictures on my walls in the compound where they keep me. Some are of my parents. Some of my childhood home. I have pictures of Claire. Pictures of places I'd love to go. And I have pictures of you."

He held her eyes now, humbled in a thousand ways by her.

"You don't even know me, Sherry. Not really. Why?"

"Because every week Claire would come to see me. She'd bring me things. Food from places she'd gone. Toys. Treasures." Sherry turned to her suitcase and knelt. She opened a pocket and pulled out a tiny box. She brought it to the bed and set it down there.

He watched her, curious.

It was pretty and had a lovely sculpted oriental bird on the top. It shivered in his memory and he narrowed his eyes. It was a crane.

"Oh yeah. You gave this to her to give to me."

Yes, he did.

He did.

He'd bought it from a merchant in Shanghai when he'd been there on his first team mission. His gaze lifted to her face. The surprise was evident.

"Yes. I kept it."

Leon said, softly, "Claire told me you loved birds."

"I do." Sherry opened the hinged lid with a tiny musical sound. A music box. It played _Beautiful Dreamer. "_ And it's a crane. The crane, traditionally, is a symbol of freedom. Did you know I needed freedom, Leon Kennedy? You offered me the hope for it with this box. And I loved you."

Inside the little box was a series of things.

He felt his heart start to race a little as she removed each one and laid them on the bed.

"This is a doll you had made for me in R—"

"Russia." He almost whispered it, "I had it made in Russia. The dollmaker took custom orders. He made it look like the picture I had of you."

"The picture of the three of us? The one we took with that camera before Claire left us?"

He held her gaze. "Yeah. That one."

Sherry asked, softly, "Where is that picture now?"

He could TASTE his heart in his throat. An interesting feeling for a man so used to facing adversity without fear. He was afraid of this conversation. "On my nightstand."

"In your fancy New York penthouse apartment."

"In my fancy penthouse."

"Where you throw out the things that don't matter."

Sherry smiled so softly. So sweetly. It made him laugh a little and nod.

"Clever. Clever. Clever girl."

"I was fourteen when she gave it to me." And fourteen when she'd drawn her first sexual picture of him.

Something shivered in his belly.

And now she laid the next item on the bed with a little smirk. It was a beautiful antique compact. The kind that women had used to powder their faces for centuries. It was edged in gold filigree and had sapphire encrusted on the flower it bore atop its closed lid. "You got this in S—"

"In Spain. When I was rescuing Ashley Graham.

"Yes." She touched it so delicately with her fingers. "I gave Claire a drawing for you when she brought this to me."

She waited. And he gave her the only answer he had. "I have it. I had it framed. It's the three of us on the train watching the sunrise."

"Yes." Her heart shimmered for him. "Where is it?"

"….it's over my fireplace."

"You kept it."

"I kept it."

"In your penthouse where you throw things away."

His FACE. His face. She was obsessed with him. He was looking at Sherry like he'd never seen anything like her. He was looking at her like she might know where all the answers to life were hidden. He was looking at her like she might set him on fire and dance in his ashes while he died. It was a heady feeling.

"Each time you sent me a gift…" She laid each tiny gift on the bed for him to see. "I would draw a picture of us. I would draw a picture of the three of us. And I would draw a picture of you. Because Claire…she brought me pictures of you. You in Spain. You in Harvardville. There's…my favorite one here."

She pulled it out of the tiny box. It was a Polaroid. It was taken by Claire at a café in Venice once when he'd met her at a conference. She'd snapped it while he'd been looking out at the water. It was the right lighting, the right shift of color. His eyes, Sherry thought desperately, were the same blue as the sea he was so carefully coveting. And those eyes…they were so sad.

"I thought…why are you sad, Leon? And maybe you were sad for the same reason I was sad. Maybe you were lonely."

She lifted her eyes from the photo to the man in it.

"When I saw this photo, I drew the last picture you see in that notebook."

He flipped to it and glanced down. It was them. And they were sitting together on a long pier. They were holding hands and watching the water together. And him?

He was smiling.

She said, "You're never smiling in your photos."

Surprised, he glanced up at her face.

"You're never smiling. Why are you so sad, Leon?"

God, she was something. She was something. Something that kept the little trinkets he'd sent for her all these years. Something that saw into his fucking soul. Something that coveted him like he was the only thing in the world she wanted.

He saw the reflection of himself in her eyes and wanted her. He just…wanted her...and the lie of peace she offered.


	10. Submission

**Stage Ten: Submission**

* * *

 **Devil's Elbow -**

* * *

Sherry was tucking her little box of treasures back into her bag.

"Honestly?"

"Yes. Honestly."

He tossed the notebook on the bed. "You made my penis too small." It was open to a drawing of him on his back with his hands behind his back. And he was clearly flaccid in it.

And now she laughed. She laughed. And it warmed him to hear it.

"I was fourteen."

"Maybe it was cold when you were drawing me that day."

Sherry chuckled and moved toward him. "Maybe it was."

"You were drawing pictures of my dick at fourteen?" Amused, he watched her walk toward him.

"Seems that way. At sixteen? I was drawing pictures like this." She opened the notebook and flipped pages. And then she showed it to him.

It was him again. Well, it was THEM. She'd drawn them wrapped around each other, clearly in the throws. He couldn't tell if his dick was too small in this picture…as it was buried between her thighs.

He narrowed his eyes, studying it like a great work of art. "Sixteen, you say?"

Her cheeks were pink. Pink. She was blushing. And he…felt something roll in his tummy looking at her. "Sixteen." She affirmed, smiling up at him.

"Hmm. I was twenty-six you realize? And would not have touched you then."

"Oh?"

"Hmm. No. I seem to possess a few scruples. I probably would not have touched you."

Sherry eyed him, delighted. "I think you amended your earlier statement, Mr. Kennedy. Probably?"

And now he grinned, just a little, "I'm a man. Not a martyr. If you'd shown up and thrown off your dress like in that hotel? I probably would have touched you."

"…that's very scandalous, Mr. Kennedy. I was a CHILD."

He glanced at the drawings and back at her face. Down again and back at her face. "I don't think you were a good child, Sherry Birkin. You were a naughty teenager. This is a drawing of me mounting you from behind. I do NOT think a child draws that."

Sherry giggled a little and delighted him. "So, you wouldn't have touched me then?"

"….probably not. Probably. I'm OCCASIONALLY a good guy."

"What if I mounted you from behind?"

And now he looked highly amused by her. He even laughed. "Like a piggyback ride?"

"….sure." Sherry pictured it. She pictured him giving her a piggyback ride right now. It was such a purely sweet imagine. She pictured them naked while doing it…and it stopped being so sweet.

"I probably would not have touched you at sixteen. Probably. Most likely." He laughed a little.

"What about now?" Sherry asked, watching those eyes shift over her drawings in the book.

"What about it?"

She dropped the towel. "Want to touch me now?"

He dropped the notebook. He studied her. "Do you want me to touch you now?"

They held eyes. She finally shook her head. No.

No?

He lifted a brow at her.

"You don't want me to touch you?"

Sherry shook her head again. She shifted toward him. He watched her move. She put him against the frame of the door.

And she said, so softly, "I know you. I know you, maybe, in ways you can't begin to know you. Because I've done nothing..nothing…but think of you for ten years. I don't want you to touch me. Not yet. But I want to touch you. And I want you to do nothing while I do it. Say yes."

It was a power reversal for them. It would mean allowing her to invert the structure of power to please him. It would mean giving over control to her so she could.

She took his hands, she guided his arms until they gripped the doorframe above his head.

And she whispered it, so nervous, so sweet. "Say yes."

"…yes."

She jerked his zipper down and put her hand inside to touch him. It was so sudden it stole his breath. Her little voice said, "Don't come, Leon. Not yet."

And he laughed, gasping, as she went to her knees and put her mouth on him.

His voice came now, smooth and low, and breathy with need, "Don't stop until I tell you, Sherry. Don't stop."

And that's how they both knew the power was still his. Hers and his. Theirs.

She drove her mouth down on him with a reckless abandon. It was unsure, it was untested, it was unbelievably hungry. Sherry went too far down and gagged a little, reversed and kept going. Dedicated, she didn't stop. She devoured. With a determined glee, she swallowed him, discovering where to put her tongue, her lips, her teeth. His sounds excited her, his need enthralled her. He didn't touch her. He vibrated with the need to.

Her little hands slid up the inside of his thighs and grabbed his hips. She pulled him against her face and brought his breath out in a laugh. Eager little thing. She didn't stop. She obeyed him. She tried to kill him with the heavy dip and drive of that wet mouth.

Close, too close, so close to the edge and spurned on by the suckling sounds she made, he finally said, quietly, "Enough. Enough, Sherry."

She didn't stop. She kept going.

Surprised, he let go of the frame to grab her face. She let him pull her mouth free with a wet pop. And he shuddered, painfully denying himself the piercing edge of release he needed.

"I said stop."

Oh, she loved that hoarse voice. She loved it. It thrilled and killed and excited her.

"I heard you."

She knew he'd punish her now. This was the game. It was the way they did things. It was how he ruled her. It was how he owned her.

But she was dying for him.

And it was time to show him her power.

It was time.

She lifted to her feet, small and delicate. And her eyes held his.

He said, "Lie down on your belly on the bed."

"Not yet." Her answer surprised him. But not nearly as much as what she did next. She grabbed his shirt and jerked. She shouldn't have been strong enough to move him. But she could. She threw him on his back on the bed and he bounced and slid from it.

That must have been something in her blood from the G-Virus. I'm strong, she'd said. And she was that. She was a little stronger, a little faster, and a little better than anyone else. Was it any wonder Wesker wanted her? There was no one else on earth like her.

She mounted him, straddling his hips and waist.

He said, "Don't, Sherry."

Don't what? She wondered? Don't stop? Don't start? Or don't TAKE HIS POWER?

His face said it was the third.

And it spilled like blood between them, hot and sticky. She wanted to take his power. And take his soul. And take him and run away and keep him. And be kept by him. And let him own her and own him. And love him.

God, he was her obsession.

He bought up his hand to spank her. She grabbed his wrist and slapped it back on the bed. She held him down and he moved, leveraging against her hold.

Surprised, he held her gaze.

And she grinned.

"Not just another pretty face."

"Let go of me, Sherry."

She put her mouth against his, just a press of lips and whispered, "…..not yet. I can't. I have to have you. Just this one time. Just this one time, ok? Just once. I need to put my hands, my mouth, my skin…I need to put it all over you. I need that. And I need you to just…let me. Just let me love you. I'm in love with your body…just…let me have you. Just this one time."

Sherry put his hands around the rungs of the headboard. "I can…I can bind you. Or you can just let me. I can make you or you can let me. Your choice."

Jesus, she humbled him the hell out of him. She made him feel like a god. Or Superman. He wanted to own her. Which was stupid. You couldn't own another person. But he wanted to own this one. He said nothing but kept his hands around the rungs of the headboard.

Her hands came up and caught on his shirt. Such a pretty, expensive shirt. She caught the little neck and pulled. It ripped down the center like paper.

His already hard dick pulsed with excitement. Clever little thing. She knew how to turn the game back on him. He shouldn't let her. But he was stricken to silence by her face. Sherry and her angel face, looking at him like he might be the devil. Like he might tempt her soul from her flesh to love him.

She scent rolled his chest and put her teeth on him. She wasn't gentle. She bit down and drew blood. Sharp and fast and immediate; it was like fire in the blood.

Leon jerked and Sherry watched a little blood fill those teeth imprints.

She didn't let it rest. She licked him. She licked him everywhere. She put her mouth all over him. He made some sound of excitement. Her little hands and mouth were starving for him. She skimmed his arms; she brushed his collarbone with kisses. She licked his chin and gently nipped along his neck. She took his pants down his legs and touched him. His calves, his knees, his thighs. She put her hands on him, she put her mouth on him, she put her teeth on him.

She left no place on his body that didn't feel her touch. She climbed up his body and angled her body to him. He made a little sound and she seated herself on his aching shaft. Sherry mewled a little at the soreness of her body but it took him in and snuggled him in the wet heat of her.

He watched the pain and pleasure of that shoot across her face. She leaned forward and slid their fingers together over the headboard rails. And she kissed him.

Soft.

So soft.

It rolled in his heart and lodged there.

She whispered, "I think I've loved you all my life, Leon Kennedy. Let me have you."

She rode his body and stole his soul. It was almost gentle. She kept their mouths together and sweetly delved with her tongue. Her hips lifted and lowered until she knew it was a good rhythm for them both. She was so tight and warm and wanting above him that he was kinda afraid she'd changed the game on him here.

He made some kind of sound when she rolled her hips and sucked him into her pulsing body so deep he was fairly certain they'd merge into one person. She felt him shudder and said, "Don't come for me, Leon. Not yet."

Clever, clever, clever girl.

She lifted off him and slapped down, hard and deep. It hurt her. He saw it hurt her. She gasped and tightened her body with pain. And it closed around his thrusting dick like a fist. And worked like a charm. He humped his hips up toward her little slapping torturous sheath, felt that perfect ass of hers roll against his groin, and pumped into her needy body.

She was so tender inside that even his pulsing shaft as she came hurt her. Sherry made a sound of pain and pleasure and want. And her hungry wetness swallowed his release.

Let me have you, she'd moaned. He'd let her have him.

He let go of the headboard and grabbed her to him. She collapsed against his body and he rolled her to her back on the bed. She gasped, gasped, and he hammered into her aching heat so hard it brought her mouth open in a scream as he plowed her body and came in her, dumping himself inside her without concern for her at all.

She rose up and grabbed a handful of his hair. He made a sound of pain and she shoved her tongue into his mouth. He pumped his release into her throbbing core while she made sounds of pain and her body clenched, cinched, and sucked him in.

Sherry made a desperate cry as went half off the bed with his thrusts. Her hand came up and she gasped, shoving against the assault of him even as she wrapped her legs around his legs and pulled him deeper. It was such a contradiction.

And then she brought her hand down on his thrusting ass.

She slapped it. She slapped it hard enough it echoed. She slapped him hard enough he hissed and grunted…

And laughed.

He collapsed atop her. She made a sound of pain and pleasure…and panic. But it was too late. They tumbled to the floor. That's what happened when someone fucked you half off a bed.

They hit the floor. She grunted. Leon made an OOMPH sound.

It was the perfect end to a mindless roll in the sheets.

And Sherry said, hoarsely, "I said don't come."

"…you did."

"I had to punish you."

He leaned up to look into her face on the cold floor.

"…clever girl." Their eyes held. It had to be getting close to the time to collect Burns. But neither was ready to move. He asked, so very softly, "How much damage can you take, Sherry?"

A loaded question.

A loaded question indeed. Did he mean physically? Psychically? Emotionally? She had a feeling he'd test her on all three. He wasn't a man that did anything, ever, without pushing it all the way past its breaking point.

And so, she answered, "Do you want to damage me, Leon Kennedy?"

They held gazes. His watch beeped to signal it was time to go. He kept holding her gaze.

"I do."

The answer thrilled her. But hers? Hers damned them both.

"…show me."

She wanted any kind of pain he could bring her. She wanted the pain, the pleasure, the pulsing greed and need of him. She wanted the rough and rumble and tumble that came with craving him. She was obsessed with him.

She couldn't think of any possible way this could end well for her.

And, staring into the tossing sea of his eyes, she couldn't find the strength to care.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the wilderness...**

* * *

Claire woke in the moonlight.

The smooth glide of his hands on her thighs. She shook her head, grabbing for his hands.

He spilled open her legs to taste her.

She bowed. Gasped. Naked. She was naked.

Had she gone to bed naked?

She gasped, "Oh please…don't."

He filled her full of his tongue. He laughed against her. His fingers slid into her, over her, under her. She spread the cream of her needy cunt around like painting the canvas of her want.

She cried, "GET THE INJECTION! PLEASE!"

And he laughed again. And shook his head: no.  
He rolled her body up to his mouth. His hands slid up her belly to palm her naked breasts. He rolled her, using his tongue to fuck her in the moonlight.

She gasped, shaking. She tried to get away.

He rolled her to her belly on the bed. He jerked her hips up. He filled her full of his driving fingers while she bucked, shaking, denying.

He painted her body with her own lying want. Her own faking.

LIAR.

She screamed for him. She came, screaming. As he fingered her sloppy heat.

She cried again, "Please….get the injection…please…"

And he whispered, "No."

She tried once again to flee. He caught her ankles and flipped her to her back on the bed.

She shook her head. Her hands came up to push. He jerked her in against him where he knelt on the bed. She pleaded now, shaking, afraid, "Please don't….stop."

Don't stop?

LIAR.

FAKER.

He thrust into the needy heat of her.

And she was so wet. She was so engorged. She was ready.

He hit the end of her. She cried out. She cried.

She cried as he fucked her.

The Dark Knight. In the dark night.

It was so wet. The bed was wet beneath her. He leaned down. She leaned up. They kissed. Tongues and need.

She mewled. Her hands stopped pushing on him. They grabbed his hips to urge him into her. The pace was manic now. Too fast.

His body made a wet slap into her. Hers sucked him in. A mouth that mewled. A cunt that craved. A girl that gave herself to the enemy. Her enemy. Her captor.

The Prince…and the Unwilling Slave.

His mouth on her breasts. Tasting. Suckling.

 _Give me yourself Claire…and I will offer you the world._

She clasped him to her. She wept. She clung. She came.

She came in his arms as he plowed into her. Her belly cramped with each hit against her cervix. Her body bucked into his embrace.

She came screaming even as she cried, "…don't don't don't…"

Him…or her?

And his raping thrusts weren't raping. They weren't. They were plunging into her want for him. Her hatred for herself. Her need.

Her need to get away.

And to stay there with him…impaled.

He grunted. She gasped. Her hands shoved at him.

"No! DON'T!"

And he came in her. He pulsed at the core of her and came in a scalding wash. He filled her womb with his bursting seed. She cried, groaning, shaking her head…denying. Even as her hips humped, humped, and her body swallowed him down like a whore.

She couldn't think of any possible way this could end well for her.

And, staring into the tossing terror of his eyes, she couldn't find the strength to fight anymore.


	11. Exaltation

**Stage Eleven: Exaltation**

* * *

 **Somewhere in the wilderness…**

* * *

She nearly forgot who she was until Jill Valentine saved her life. Not with a team and her brother. Not with a weapons and bombs and bravery. She saved her life with antibodies. With blood. Without meaning to, she stepped into Claire's shoes and broke her free of the bonds that tied her to the monster that haunted her bed and her dreams.

Claire Redfield was often the type of woman who could be found at the right hand of charity work. She was, by turns, a philanthropist and a volunteer. She donated her time to the cause of eradicating bioterrorism from the world, not by fighting, but by helping repair the damage when the fight went wrong.

In this moment, she was sitting at a long table. She was dressed in a white satin. She wore her hair in curls around her pretty pale shoulders. She sat while the other three people at the table enjoyed dinner together.

There was the former Captain that had betrayed his team to death and become some kind of subhuman monster mutated by various strains of infection and given him a god complex. There was his disgusting minion who was somehow so very handsome that enjoyed torture porn and making art from the destruction of the human body and his van dyke beard and piercing blue eyes. And the third member of their little dinner party; another handsome man with silver hair and a little scar above one striking eye.

On the walls…oh my god…on the walls were humans. Maybe. Maybe they were humans. They were twisted, tortured, torn and broken bodies. They had died painfully. Was it too much to hope they'd been dead before they'd been…taken apart? They were Frankenstein in nature; stitched together and taped and glued and glittered. They were covered in glitter. Like a little girl with an art set had come along and dusted them in sparkles. A head, a leg, an arm with no fingers. A breast, a chest cavity opened to show a glitter painted heart sprayed with gold spray paint beneath, a necklace of fingers hung from the chandelier above the table. Blood ran down the walls in red washes liberally scattered with metallic paint and glitter. It was a horrid tableau of a macabre Broadway show. Terrifying in its sheer horror.

The man with the van dyke beard was stroking a listing girl on his lap. She was bleeding, badly, from her torn and mutilated shoulder and arm. The man with the beard was just…he was licking the blood like she was a lollipop. When the girl listed too far to one side, he slapped her face and brought her back awake to moan pitifully.

Wesker turned his attention to where she sat, watching them. He liked women to dress for dinner. He liked women to dress as women. So, she was wearing this stupid get up and waiting, waiting, for the moment to escape.

Wesker studied her and finally spoke, " _Claire…_ you haven't heard the news. And we're being so rude by not sharing it with you."

Claire remained silently, watching them.

"I have acquired a beautiful and exciting specimen. I acquired her a few years back, of course, at the Spencer Estate but…well…I should thank you for letting me experiment on you with my drug. The failure of the drug to completely control you allowed me to make the necessary adjustments. The funding and ability to access what I needed in Africa had given me the other pieces. I didn't realize that I had the answer to one part of my eternal question all along…"

He rose and gestured to the door.

It opened and a woman in a beautiful blue gown emerged. She was ghost pale and ice blonde…and dead. She was dead.

Claire whispered it, "JILL!"

Amused, Wesker patted his knee. And Jill sat easily down on him. She looked like a little glassy eyed doll. She was empty. Her eyes were empty and sightless. She studied Claire without recognition.

"The drug I used on you is perfect now. It gives me the PERFECT control of her. I discovered that Jill has antibodies to the T-Virus. She's exquisite, isn't she? Just perfect. And priceless. Because she's given me what I need. Which means?"

He gestured a little and Alesio rose, grinning from ear to ear.

"It means you are expendable, my dear, dear girl. Expendable. I no longer need Birkin's spawn. I have all I need in this very room. I have Excella's money and influence. I have the partnership of another brilliant mind to distribute my gift to the flailing human world."

The silver haired man smiled smoothly and sipped his wine.

"This is Glenn Arias. He is a procurer of weapons for the wealthy and needed. He's a businessman who deals in bioorganic weapons. He has already aligned buyers for my creation. Through his assistance, my vision will become a new reality. I will save humanity from its pathetic descent into mediocrity. I will shower it with truth and beauty. I will preserve the last vestiges of a dying race. And I will rule that which survives the purification. Together? We guarantee complete, global saturation."

Arias said, quietly, "Albert, she seems superfluous in all of this. You collected her for a reason?"

"I had collected samples of the very dead William Birkin. Birkin and I, were old friends, and he lost his mind and injected himself with his own creation. I retrieved enough to create a simulation of G but I wanted a fresh sample. Before his death, William impregnated his own daughter with a G-embryo."

Alesio looked excited by the word impregnate.

Wesker patted his arm, "I'm afraid it was more clinical than that, my old friend. Sherry, the child, carries a very special blood type. She was ultimately cured but my sources confirm she is, potentially, the only BOW in existence successfully living with the G-Virus. I wanted her blood. And I wanted her. I was going to use her as my perfect soldier…until my beautiful Jill literally fell into my hands."

He stroked Jill absently, "Our dear friend, _Claire,_ was one of the only people who knew her location. I have literally thousands in my employ and I couldn't get through the layers of security protecting her. As it turned out? I don't need her. Jill has everything I need. Jill IS everything I need. And Claire is no longer necessary. It's all well and good. I was remembering too clearly the pleasures of the mortal flesh. Soon I might have begun to process emotion again. The idea is horrifying."

Arias said, softly, "There are useful traits to feeling human, Albert. You don't hunger for children or normalcy? Ever?"

Wesker looked highly amused. "Ah. Glenn…how to explain the intricacy of what I do here? There is no need for children when you are a god. I will CREATE my children soon enough. Those who survive Uroboros will become mine. And I will be as a father to the new world."

What a fucking nut job. But Glenn Arias? He was nodding with reverence. And Alesio was watching Claire like a boy with an ice cream cone. Jesus.

Arias said, "Will the children be controllable, Albert? Imagine the possibility of weapons you can control not with constant injections…but with thought?"

Wesker was looking so eager. Like a kid in a candy store. "Glenn, GLENN…we will be good friends. I do so love a fertile mind."

Alesio drew their attention as the girl on his lap let out a shout of fear. He was using the steak knife in his hand to slice away a ribbon of flesh from her chest. She panicked. She fought back. And Alesio was thrilled.

He threw her on the table and rattled the dishes. Arias and Wesker stayed sitting there, watching almost boredly. Oh god, what kind of shit show was she in here!? Oh god. OH GOD.

Alesio stabbed the steak knife into the girls struggling belly. She squealed, bucking and fighting. Her ripped it free in a burst of blood. And he angled it at her groin.

Oh god.

Claire made a very bad mistake. She whispered, "Don't."

And they all looked at her now.

Alesio looked so happy. So, so happy. A kid in a candy store. A delighted child. A perverted monster.

He drove the knife into the screaming girl's groin. Once, twice, three, four times. Her screaming was so loud. So awful and loud. So terrible. Claire felt tears fill her eyes for her. What a horrible way to die. Eventually, she stopped screaming.

The blood was everywhere. It was all over the apron Alesio wore over his blue suit. It was all over the table. It had flecked on Wesker's glasses and Jill's dress and Arias' watch. And none of them cared. Wesker was smiling.

FREAK.

The girl on the table was dead or dying. PLEASE DEAD. Because Claire didn't want to think about what he would do to her when he carried her body away. But he wasn't going to do that. Not yet. Nope. He had other plans.

Alesio was moving toward her now.

Claire could feel the panic in her guts start to twist like snakes.

"Our guest is getting bored, Glenn. Should we let her play? _Claire_ , as much as I'd love to keep playing with you, I'm afraid it really is unnecessary. But Alesio? He never tires of playing. He asked if he could have you. I love giving him gifts. He is so very….eager…to please me."

Claire shifted in her chair, vibrating.

"Tell me there's a reason to keep you whole… _Claire._ Tell me there's a reason to keep you…alive."

Jill, her brother's best friend, watched expressionlessly.

Claire waited, waited, and the moment Alesio was close enough…all six foot five and huge shoulders in a baby blue suit and a blood apron…she pushed her chair backward, rolled over, grabbed it and came up swinging. Chris would have been proud.

It smashed beautifully into the big man. It threw him off center.

And Claire turned to run through the heavy arched opening of the mansion. These psychos and mansions. Why was it always mansions? Did no one live in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere!? (*cough*) Pyscho's loved castles and mansions.

What had Leon told her? Europe was ruined for him because of what had happened in Spain. Claire knew that she NEVER wanted to live in a mansion. EVER. Chris had nearly died in one…TWICE. Jill had died…or not. As she was alive!? She was dead!? What the fuck was she?

In the heavy dress, Claire was still fast. That happened when you'd been running for years. She ran for the far hallway and burst through the door. She could have tried to head out the front door but she knew…she KNEW…that there was no hope of getting away that easily. So she ran down the narrow hallway and found herself in the kitchen.

The laughter of Wesker's gross companion trailed after her. It was high pitched, it was girly, it was horrifying in conjunction with such a HUGE man. Alesio was massive in sheer girth. He was bigger than her brother. And there were few men ALIVE bigger in muscle than her brother. But Alesio had him beat in spades.

She did NOT want to find out what happened when he caught her.

Jill…Jill…she'd done nothing. She'd done nothing but sit there and smile like a doll. Jesus. The last time she'd seen Jill, she'd been playing foosball with Chris. Her short dark hair had been in a stubby ponytail and her curvy body encased in enough spandex that Claire had been envious of her ability to have the perfect hourglass figure. The weird doll sitting on Albert Wesker's lap wasn't Jill Valentine. Jill Valentine was mouthy and laughing and in love with her brother.

Of course, Chris was so stupid that he'd never figured it out.

THAT was not Jill Valentine.

How did she survive this?

The laughter rang around her like echoes in a silent room.

Jesus. JESUS.

Claire grabbed the biggest knife she could find on the butcher block and ran for the door beside the pantry. It was unlocked. And it spilled her into a large yard complete with beautiful fall trees in red, orange, yellow and green. Dead leaves crunched beneath her slippered feet as she ran across the wide-open courtyard.

There were trees in the distance. Where was she? She didn't know. She had no clue. She was in the middle of nowhere, trapped, lost…and alone. She burst into the tree line and she heard Wesker's voice chase her into the woods, "You can run, _Claire…_ but you can't hide. A trite cliché it seems but useful. Alesio isn't much of a hunter, I'm afraid. But I have someone who IS. Jill? Go find our little rabbit please. We can't have her getting away."

And now he was sending her brother's best friend to kill her.

Claire tripped over a log but kept running. She kept on running. She ran through the woods in a ball gown while the ghost of Jill Valentine chased her.

And Claire thought, desperately, hopefully…that surely someone was coming. Someone was coming to save her. Right? Right? Someone was coming. Chris was coming. Leon was coming. Someone. ANYONE.

She was desperately afraid no one was coming. No one. And she was going to die in the woods at the hands of Wesker's puppet. Surely it was better, infinitely better, than dying AS his puppet. Surely that was better.

And yet, as the fear coursed through her, she realized it didn't matter. It didn't matter. Because either way? She'd be just as dead.

And there was no one coming to save her.

She was on her own.


	12. Amplification

**Stage Twelve: Amplification**

* * *

 **Devil's Elbow, Kentucky**

* * *

She was weaving her yards of blonde hair into a beautiful, thick, and deadly little French braid. He watched her, considering. The hair was gorgeous. It was nearly platinum. It was silky on the hands and on the skin while she slid above you. And she was struggling with it.

Leon stepped forward and moved her hands. She watched him, in the mirror of the vanity, weave her hair without any pauses. Of course. Of course, he was a man that could effortlessly braid a woman's hair. She eyed him quietly.

"Whose hair have you braided in your life, Leon Kennedy?"

Amused, he caught her eyes in the mirror. "There's always more involved in bodyguarding then just picking up a gun to protect your charge."

And now, oh it was priceless, the humor on her face. "You're telling me that the Ghost, the Immortal, the right hand of the President…was forced to braid his daughter's hair?"

Leon licked his teeth. His face was droll. It was dry. And hers? Oh, soooo amused. Her beautiful eyes sparkled. And so he shrugged and chuckled. "Seems that way."

He finished braiding her thick hair and secured the end of it in a bun at the base of her skull. She kept her eyes on his face in the mirror. "What a man you are."

He lifted his eyes to hers.

"How has no one come along to marry you and keep you?"

An interesting question. He shrugged again. "I'm a hard man to keep."

"Without question."

He considered her in the mirror. "Your hair…it's beautiful. It makes you look like a fairytale princess."

What a thing to say. She felt it shiver in her heart.

"Thank you."

His fingers trailed, gently, over a curl of it against her cheek. "You should cut it."

Surprised, she held his look in the mirror. "Why?"

"It's dangerous, Sherry. Dangerous. What we do? It needs short hair. Something grabs all this beautiful hair? It breaks your neck and kills you. A lover enjoys twisting it around his hands, yes. God yes. It turns me on just saying it to you. But it will get you killed if you leave it."

She considered him now.

"Claire keeps her hair long. Why? She's not in the fight, Sherry. She's in the trenches. She's a savior not a fighter. But anyone who's in the battle? From Valentine to Wong? It's short hair. Jill had long hair for awhile. On a boat in the middle of the ocean, one of those ugly fuckers got a claw in it. If Redfield hadn't been there? She'd have been deader than shit. She keeps it shoulder length now or shorter. You should do the same."

And now he knelt, he knelt in front of her. And her hands came up to cup his face. She couldn't ever get passed the part that said it was ok for her to touch him. Her thumbs skimmed his mouth.

Leon intoned, softly, "Tonight is the first real time you could come up against something dangerous, Sherry. You can't control everything that happens. Not in this job. It's impossible. But you can control how you go into the fight. You can control how you prepare yourself. You can heal damage. You can move, slightly faster and stronger and better. But you can still die. If I grabbed your hair and slit your throat from ear to ear…"

Oh.

Oh, his face.

His face said he didn't like that at all. And it healed her a little to see the pain of it on him.

She comforted him now, kissing his forehead. And this sweet, simple, loving gesture amused him. He cupped her wrists where she held his face. "You'd die just like anyone else, Sherry. Quickly. And painfully. I can't protect you all the time. I can try. But I can't guarantee it. Even I'm not that good."

And so, she nodded; moved to it by the look on his face. "Ok. I'll cut it."

"Thank you." Wistful, he touched it. "It's a fucking crime against humanity to do it though. No lie. You could become a school teacher instead and keep the hair."

Sherry laughed a little, softly. "I think it's too late for that."

"Probably."

He rose and kissed her forehead.

Sherry was quiet now, watching him move. He was so handsome. Utterly. It was insane. His muscles were nicely shown in the black, skin-tight, moisture-wicking shirt he wore. It left nothing and everything to the imagination. The shoulder holster he wore was a nice compliment to all the black. His fatigues, his boots, his gloves: monochrome. He was clearly the Immortal now. From the kneepads to the thigh holster, to the expression on his face as he calculated and assessed.

He shifted to his suitcase and pulled out his jacket. It was good brown leather, soft and pettable, and Sherpa lined. Sherry looked at it and said, softly, "You kept it."

Leon turned to look at her and smiled, laughing a little. "So, that's a long story actually."

She considered him and waited.

"Oh. You want to hear it?"

"Seems that way."

"Alright." He slipped his arms into the jacket. Sherry, in a long-sleeved purple top and jeans, moved to get her own jacket from the coat rack. "I was in Spain. I had just rescued Ashley Graham. We hit the far side of the water and her entourage came to evacuate her. The sun was rising and the wind was…well…it was nuts stick to your ass cold…"

A good story. A story about a hero. A story about a question to recover a coat given to him by a girl he'd once saved. A good story.

It made her yearn for him.

But it didn't matter. Not really. It was time for them to finish the mission.

It was time for her to go back to her cage.

* * *

She pulled the little car to the edge of the clearing where a muted sedan sat waiting. The back door of the car opened and Burns was extracted. There were no words exchanged; no looks were offered. They just collected the target and left.

The quiet in the car was long now and murderous.

She said, softly, "I have to go back."

They held gazes in the darkness. He nodded. "I know that."

"He won't let me just leave, Leon. Not after all this time."

"…have you tried asking?"

She gave him a bland look. And it clicked. It just clicked into place for him. It clicked and told him the answer of what was ringing in his head. She was Rapunzel.

In a way, she was Rapunzel. She had the hair. She had the tower. She was trapped by a dubious force. She was waiting for someone to save her. But he couldn't. He wanted to save her. He just didn't know how.

Would she let down her long hair and let him save her?

She was curious if he'd offer to protect her. She was curious if he'd ask her to stay with him. He was so very quiet. The silence expanded around them; an organic thing. It grew and grew and killed where it touched.

He did neither.

And it spoke louder than words.

I've had lots of women, he'd said. And so he'd go back to his lots of women. And she? She'd go back to her gilded cage. She'd go back to her loneliness. And back to drawing pictures of him.

That's just how things had to be.

Sherry finally turned back to the steering wheel and drove. She pulled away to the road and focused on the task at hand. It did no good to think about what came next.

She knew what came next. She'd go back to sitting in a quiet room somewhere waiting for Claire. Claire, she queried, where are you? Possibly embroiled in a love affair with a new beau. Claire had a tendency to jump in whole hog with men. There was always a mess of some kind happening with her love life.

Sherry pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine. She felt something shift and roll in her belly. She knew, he knew, they knew…in the morning she'd have to board the plane to take her away from this place.

They climbed out of the car and moved into the house. So quiet. So terribly quiet.

She peeled off the bloody jacket she wore and the ruined shirt beneath. In her little white bra, so plain and simple cotton, she moved into the bedroom. He copied the gesture, hanging up his jacket. He unhooked his shoulder holster and laid it easily on the dresser.

Sherry went into the bathroom to shower away the blood on her body.

Leon sat down on the foot of the bed and listened to the water in the porcelain.

She came out of the bathroom in a puff of steam and heat. He studied her where she stood with the towel wrapped around her. She held his gaze for a long moment.

She finally spoke, softly, "It's ok, Leon. I've never thought I'd get to hold on to you. Not really. Don't feel sorry for me. Being here, being with you…it's the happiest I've ever been. Don't feel sorry for me."

God, she was something. This girl who saw simple human kindness as something special. This girl that coveted a man she barely knew and healed knife wounds and kept trinkets for years and years. This girl that opened a door in him in a dirty city without hope and given him a purpose to keep fighting.

She was his reason. She'd always been his reason. He hadn't even realized until he'd seen her again. He'd taken up the fight to save her, kept on fighting to protect her, and kept on doing it to honor her. She'd found a place in him without even trying.

What cost was paid by letting her go back into the hands of a man who owned her?

 _But he didn't_ , Leon thought angrily, _you do. You own her. She's yours. Make her yours. It's what she wants. It's what you both want._

Sitting on the foot of the bed, he finally spoke to her, "Come here."

She did, without hesitation. She moved toward him. He opened his legs enough for her to step between them. His hands lifted and unhooked the towel she wore. She held it open for him to look at her. She felt her breath catch as he looked at her now. He just looked at her. His perusal was thorough, it was considerate, it was desperately arousing.

He finally touched her while she watched him enraptured. One delicate glide of his finger against a satiny hip that moved to her belly button and swirled there. He traced her taut little tummy with his thumbs when his hands shifted and bracketed her narrow waist. They were about the same height with him sitting there. It was incredibly intimate.

His hands slip up to cup her breasts and weigh them. The contrast of softness and sensual need was incredible. He tasted her, tongue and lips. No teeth. He wasn't trying to devour her. No. He was trying to CONSUME her. His mouth plucked each perky little treat and suckled her, almost delicately. When her breasts were tender and excited, when her nipples were peaked and pinked and damp from his attention, those questing hands finally slid up her collarbone and over her throat. His thumbs traced her cheeks and over her mouth.

She shivered and gasped as his hands slid down her back and caressed her sweet bottom. She whispered, so, so, softly, "Please."

And one eyebrow quirked from him. "Please what?"

She didn't know. She only knew she craved him.

She dropped the towel and grabbed for his shirt. She peeled it off him and threw it aside. And she climbed on his lap. She straddled his lap and kissed him.

She pressed their naked torsos together and made a little mewl of excitement. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, feeling the tickle of his hair against her smoothness. Her fingers threaded through his hair and gripped while they kissed.

No screaming, tearing, taking kiss. This kiss was smooth, wet, and wonderful. She was learning his mouth, his need, his taste. She was learning his signs and signals and wants. She sucked his tongue and then pulled his hands up.

Her hands trapped his above their heads while they kissed. Intertwined fingers, intertangled tongues, and they were lost in the thrill of it. She pressed their foreheads together while she breathed, heavy and thick.

And she whispered it again, softly, "Please."

His gruff response echoed it, "Please what?"

Sherry shook her head, frustrated. "I need you."

She let go of his arms and they slid around her and lifted her. He rolled her to her back on the bed. She grabbed for him and he laughed a little, delighted with her.

He said, "Take my clothes off me. But don't touch me anywhere else. Not yet."

She unhooked his belt and unzipped him. She dropped to her knees on the floor to unlace his boots. She was almost clinical about it. She didn't grope him, she didn't grab him, she didn't steal a caress of a squeeze. A good girl, she peeled each layer of his clothing off his body without any extra touches.

She rose back up his body when his boxers were finally free to join the rest of his discarded clothing on the floor. She didn't even try to grab his thrusting erection in her fist to milk him. She waited, watching him so quietly.

Leon almost whispered it now, "Lay back on the bed and open your legs for me."

Sherry did so, trembling.

"Part yourself and let me see you."

She did it, exposing the heat of her to his hungry gaze. She was so swollen, so sore, so very beautifully used. It throbbed in his groin like possession. It throbbed in his groin like greed. He wanted to mount her and thrust into her aching body while she clenched and cried and came around him.

He rewarded her obedience by sliding between her legs almost sweetly, so gently. Her thighs settled over his shoulders as he lowered his head and laved her body with his needy tongue. He licked and loved her, gently, wetly, thickly and with sure, fulfilling strokes. She kept her body open for him. He hadn't told her to stop after all.

He rolled the taste of her around in his mouth and put his tongue in her, in her, in her until she was fairly sure she was going to die there impaled on his tongue. He slid one finger against her creamy center and stroked the tiny bud of her need; he favored her clit with his attention while he loved her with his tongue. And he spoke against her body, "Go, Sherry. Let go."

She came almost instantly. She came in his mouth while he suckled her. God, she was amazing. She came on command for him. He was sort of wildly afraid he was becoming obsessed with her.

He rose up her body and gathered her close against him. He held her while they lay there, stroking her back. Sherry shivered, coming down the other side of her orgasm. It took her a moment to realize he wasn't going to do anything else.

She leaned back in the circle of his arms to see his face. "Leon?"

He kissed her forehead and stroked her back. "Shh. Go to sleep now."

Sherry blinked at his closed eyes. She said, "What?"

"Let me hold you now. Just lie there and let me hold you."

That sounded nice. It did. But it wasn't what her body wanted. Her body wanted him. It always wanted him. She said, "Please."

He opened his eyes, studying her face. She was so sore. He'd seen that while he'd loved her. He'd rewarded her for being such a good girl. He wasn't going to follow that up by hurting her. No.

"No. You're too sore. Go to sleep, Sherry."

Surely he was kidding.

She watched his closed eyes. She watched his peaceful countenance. She could feel the turgid, throbbing, veiny length of him against her belly while he held her. He wasn't sleeping. His body wasn't sleeping. No, he'd said. No? Sore? She was sore. But she was desperate for him.

No.

No was the wrong word.

She laid in the circle of his arms and hated the word no. It was stupid word. It was a hateful word. It was a ridiculous word.

Leon drifted off to a light sleep rubbing her smooth back in circles like he was petting her. It was a nice feeling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fallen asleep with a girl in his arms. It had been awhile. He rarely stuck around passed the orgasm part of the program.

A soft gasp in his ear awoke him from his slumber. He shifted to grab his gun and realized, quickly, that he couldn't. He was trapped.

He was bound to the headboard.

Surprised, he tested the bonds that held him. She'd secured him perfectly to the wrought iron rungs. He tried to jerk his hands-free and couldn't.

Sherry was straddling his lap and kissing down his neck.

Leon said, softly, "Untie me."

"No."

And there was that word again.

She'd left on the bathroom light. Apparently, she wanted to see him while she tortured him. The wild little thing that she was, she wanted to see him while she stole his power.

He tried again, commanding her, "Untie me, Sherry."

"No." She shifted her body and slid her hand around him. She worked his body, watching his face. He made some sound and humped against her pumping fist.

"Stop," It was hoarse, "You're too sore. Stop. Now."

"No." Was that the only damn word she knew?

Sherry shifted and angled him toward her damp opening. He tried to twist his hips away and she jerked him back toward, almost roughly. His eyes flared with excitement at the strength of it. Jesus. Apparently, his body liked the idea of her taking it from him.

Who was he kidding? They both liked the idea of it. They all did. His body, her body, him, and her. They were in it together.

He'd never, ever, had a woman try before.

She had to work to get him inside of her. He watched her while she sunk down on him, each painful little inch. The angle was so sharp and her body so swollen and sore. She actually slapped his chest twice with the pain of it while she mounted him.

Leon grunted, gasping himself, as she took him into her and settled there finally, utterly, filled up. She rolled her hips and ground herself there against him. He knew it hurt her. He saw it all over her. His voice came again, hoarse and needy and commanding, "Stop it, Sherry. God. You're not ready. Stop it."

"No." And she lifted off him and slapped back down.

It was hard. It stole his breath. It stole hers. She clenched and cried out. And she did it again. And again. She finally grabbed his face and just rode. She rode him. She didn't stop. She cried out and shook her head in denial of the pain of it and kept on fucking his body like a possessed little thing.

He tried so hard to lie perfectly still while she used him. He watched her breasts bounce, watched her hair curl around them, watched his dick slip in and out of her tight little body. And he commanded her again, inches from coming in her. "Untie me, Sherry! Now!"

Gasping, Sherry grabbed his bonds and jerked, freeing him. His body sat bolt upright on the bed, spilling her into his lap even further. His hand came down to spank her, so very hard. It brought her mouth open in a soundless scream.

Her pert little butt liked it. It spurred her on. She kept on trying to fuck him stupid. He shot a hand down and flicked her aching clit, just once, and she came around him jerking like a landed fish. She jerked like she'd touched an exposed electrical current. He put his mouth against her breast, pulled it into his mouth and bit down, and dumped his load in her while she bucked, jerked, and screamed around him.

God. What the fuck was he supposed to do without her?

He'd never touched a woman who'd let him own her before. Never. She didn't just give it everything she had, she went beyond that. She opened her flesh and bone and showed him the soul of her. She offered herself to him without any rules, without any chance of survival. He killed her and killed himself while she burned and bled on top of him.

He knew she was bleeding. She'd pushed it too hard, pushed it too fast. She was too swollen and sore. And she bled on his body while he held her.

Shivering, he pulled her back by the hair to meet her eyes.

"Little fool. Why?" He was angry at her. And mad for her. And lost in her.

And Sherry whispered, "It might be the last time I touch you. I needed you to remember me."

Little fool.

Did she think he'd forget her?

Did she think he ever could?

He would never forget her. He couldn't.

Because he was starting to think he might be falling for her.

And it scared him to death.

Carefully, he rolled her to her back on the bed. And eased himself out of her sore body. She made a gasp of pain and tried not be turned on at the way he inspected her swollen, wet, wanting opening. It shouldn't turn her on. It was clinical and concerned, and nothing sexy. But the sight of his shaggy hair between her legs would never do anything but enthrall her.

Leon made an angry hiss. "Little fool. You will be sore for days."

Sherry shrugged and sighed. She was sore. But it was a good sore. A sore that said he'd used her and loved her and wanted her. He gingerly touched her slick lips to see how bad the bleeding was. But it was minuscule. As long as he kept from fucking her for a few days, she'd be just fine.

His fingers on her body brought her mouth open in a moan. He lifted his head and gave her hot, amused, and damning eyes. "I don't think so, you little devil. You're already used...I'd break you."

And that worked. He was fucking hard again for her. Of course he was. The idea of breaking her and her loving it...it flipped his switch. He eased one finger into her weeping body, slipping through the stickiness of their coupling. Her body stretched, stretched, and sucked him into her pulsing heat. Her hand grabbed his wrist and simultaneously pulled him into her further and tried to push him out.

Jesus.

He asked, gruffly, "You want me to stop?"

And he whispered, hoarsely, "No."

Little fool. He curled his finger into her body and watched her bow.

On the nightstand, his phone began to ring. The musical strains of the _Chocobo Theme Song_ from Final Fantasy filled the room. Sherry blinked while her sore body clenched and unclenched around where he was buried so far inside of her.

Amused, she watched him lift a hand and tape his ear. And she realized that while she'd been tying up Leon Kennedy, he'd still had a bluetooth headset in his ear. She tried to picture him answering it while they fucked and gasped and groaned. The dirty girl inside of her shivered at the idea of it.

"Kennedy."

He listened and he petted her. He petted her bottom while he listened. He stroked her tender skin and stayed so still against her. Sherry watched him curl his finger in her body and stroked his forearm while he eased in and out of her waiting sheath. Sore, god yes, in a great way. In a way that said Leon Kennedy had fucked her and fucked her and fucked her. And couldn't seem to stop.

She was obsessed with him. It would probably kill her. And she wanted to die with him inside of her.

She felt him stiffen against her. "Yeah. Yeah. Get me what you have. Yesterday. Yeah. Thanks."

He clicked the call off.

Sherry said, softly, "Work?"

"Not exactly. Sherry," He slid his finger out of her and she hated it. He wrapped his arms around her to hold her and she liked that. His hold on her increased, exponentially, and worried her, "Sherry, that was Barry Burton."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Claire is missing."

She tried to lean back to see his face. "What are you saying?"

"She's been missing for several days. Everyone is tugging lines to find her. But no one has anything right now."

Sherry tried again to move. He kept on holding her. Frustrated, she said, "Let go of me."

"No. You'll do something stupid. Don't. Let me find her."

And now she was just pissed. "You want me to go home and wait for you to find her? Is that it?"

He was so quiet. She leaned back enough to see his face. He didn't look angry. He did, however, look determined and worried. It softened her a little. She cupped his face and kissed him.

Smooth, soft, she ran her hands through his hair while she did it.

And he said, "Claire is the only person on earth that knows about you and where Simmons is keeping you. She's the only person on earth that knows the location of no less than five safety banks where biological weapons are stored and studied. Similar, to the CDC in a way, it's how we control the spread and containment after a fallout. Claire assists in clean up and helps coordinate protection of the recovered samples. She's Chris Redfield's sister and the sole person responsible for maintaining the archives at the GPC."

Sherry was already shaking her head. "You think someone kidnapped her."

"I think someone took her, yeah. And there's no shortage of reasons why."

"Oh my god. What do we do?"

Leon scooped her hair off her face. "I come with you tomorrow. They'll try to stop me when it's time to take you to wherever they are keeping you. You let me handle it from that point on. Ok?"

Oh god.

She held his face, terrified for Claire, elated that he was coming with her. A heady contradiction.

"Tell me we'll find her." She was looking to him for the answers. Like she'd done all those years ago in Raccoon City. He hadn't had them then. He didn't have them now. But he'd find them.

"I won't stop until we do."


	13. Commiseration

**Stage Thirteen: Commiseration**

* * *

 **Somewhere in the wilderness….**

* * *

Jill was out there looking for her. Night had fallen. It was cold. So cold. The feeling Claire kept getting was that she….might…be in Baden-Baden. Potentially the Black Forest. The architecture of the mansion she'd fled from felt Bavarian in orientation.

She was trapped in the Black Forest in a ballgown. Evil Jill Valentine was looking for her. A pervert that made human art was looking for her. Wesker had stuck his hand in her and licked it. Some weirdo was talking about making slaves out of people.

This is what Umbrella wrought on the world.

WHERE WAS CHRIS!?

If he showed up at the last second to save her, she was going to KICK HIS ASS. She was huddling down in the dirty below a bridge. She'd lost Jill sometime after night had fallen. Wesker's puppet was smart. She was resourceful.

And Claire had ripped off the bottom two-thirds of her stupid ballgown to make sure she could RUN. Because Jill? Jill was a goddamn RUNNER. She ran like five miles a day. She was a hoss. She was a goddess of running.

Jill, evil or not, was in hella better shape than Claire would ever be. Claire didn't train all the time. She mostly considered it heavy working out if she went to the gym three times a week. She did twelve-ounce curls of Diet Coke at night. That was about it.

She hadn't heard from Jill in hours now. She was hoping that Wesker had called her back. But she couldn't be sure. And Alesio's psycho shit was STILL OUT THERE. How long could she hide beneath this bridge?

There was a snap of a tree limb close by.

Claire froze, terrified.

She listened.

And there was another snap.

Too close.

Just outside the bridge toward the hut on top of the rise. Claire waited, terrified. There was the low sound of boots in dry leaves. Oh god. GOD. Claire readied her butcher knife. She crouched low and hugged the wall.

An assault rifle barrel edged around the wall of the bridge. Claire grabbed it, jerked it hard, and heard a gasp from her attacker. She kept on pulling and a man came with it.

Claire let out a whooping yell like an attacking indian chief and hit him right in the face with the hilt of her knife. The man grunted but held onto his gun. He grabbed her other wrist and jerked her forward.

She spilled against his chest as he swung his assault rifle to his back. She reared back with the knife and he knocked it out of her hand, pushed, and pinned her against the wall of the bridge. He had a little light attached to his headset he was wearing. The dark made it hard to tell what uniform he was wearing.

But he looked…"American!?"

The man asked, quietly, "Claire Redfield?"

Claire stopped fighting and he let her go. She staggered a little bit. Part of it was hunger. She hadn't eaten in…possibly days. The other part was relief from the fear that had made a nest in her guts. He saw her waver and grabbed her arms.

"Whoa. Hey. You alright? You ok? Are you Claire? I'm Piers Nivans. I'm here with Leon Kennedy and Sherry Birkin. We came to find you. Are you Claire?"

Claire could see his face now in the shadowy light of his headset. She felt the roll of it in her gut. He watched her face. She was dirty and scared…and rather beautiful. He blinked a little at her.

And she thought, objectively, that he was incredibly gorgeous. A handsome thing. Almost pretty. Maybe even prettier than Leon. And that was saying something.

She felt the fear and the hunger and the relief spill into her guts and twist her all up. She was kinda afraid she was going to start weeping all over that pretty man who'd come to save her.

She said, "I'm….I'm Claire. I'm Claire."

"Good! I'm glad we found you! I heard stories about your survival skills. I'm glad to see you can hold your own out here."

Sweet kid. He clearly had no idea. Because she staggered, he pulled her in against him as if to pick her up in his arms…

And she barfed all over his boots.

Horrified, she tried to apologize and instead? Well…she feinted.

When she awoke, she realized she was in the little hut at the top of the rise. There was a dim circle of light on a table to one side of where she lay. She was comfortably lying on an emergency sleeping bag on the floor. It was quite plush.

And her savior?

He was bringing her an MRE. The package said Meal-Ready-to-Eat. And whatever it was? She didn't care. She was eating the shit out of it.

She shoveled food into her mouth while he watched her.

She glanced at his face. God damn he was good looking. It kept hitting her right between the eyes. A good face with a strong jaw and beautiful eyes. Those lashes! Like ten feet long and thick. They tried to make the eyes girly and failed because the face surrounding the eyes was just sex on a stick.

She finished eating and wiped her mouth, "Thank you. I'm sorry, you said your name but I don't remember it."

He smiled and it was a fucking great smile. Gentle. And humble. "Piers. Nivans. I'm honored to meet you, Ms. Redfield. Honestly. I keep hearing stories about what you do. And what your brother is trying to do with his organization. I'm hoping to turn this meeting into good news for both of us."

"You want me to hook you up with my brother?"

"Eventually. Yeah."

Claire took the toothbrush and paste he offered. Sweet kid. He knew she'd want to rinse the taste of vomit from her mouth. She did so and rinsed with a bottle of water he handed her. And when she turned back? He was pulling spare clothes from his pack.

"They might be a little big."

"They'll be great. Perfect. Thank you. Jesus. You said Leon is with you? And Sherry?"

Piers took the bottle she handed back. He turned his back so she could change clothes. He caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window across from him and looked away. She noticed and smiled a little. He was such a gentlemen. "Yes. We separated when we touched down. I had a partner with me, Walsh, but he went back to the chopper to wait when the sun went down. I let him know I found you. And would bring you back to the chopper in the morning. I don't feel it's safe to move anymore at night."

"I agree. But staying here is dangerous, Pierce."

"It's Piers."

"Sorry. Piers…that's a weird name."

Piers laughed a little. "It's greek. And a family name. Eventually the English changed it to Peter…."

She was staring at him.

He coughed. "Sorry. I tend to ramble. Sorry."

Claire shook herself a little. "No. What? I'm sorry. It's me. I haven't…I haven't eaten or slept in days. I'm out of my nugget here. I keep staring at your face. Which isn't an insult. It's a good fucking face. Nice eyebrows. I can see the Greek thing in your eyebrows actually. I spent some time in Mykonos last summer. The Aegean is beautiful isn't? The water there always reminds of Leon Kennedy's eyes ya know? Like three shades of blue and green and beautiful."

He shifted into the shimmering light from his flashlight. And his eyes were dark shot with green and surrounded by all those lashes.

"I'm sorry. I just…I've been alone for a long time. I kinda thought I was gonna be alone forever ya know? I just I'm glad you're here. I like Greece though. The food was outstanding. You have family still there? Or..I…" Her face collapsed and she put it in her hands, "I'm sorry. I just…need a second here."

He tugged on her wrists and pulled her in. He was crouched down and she slid easily between his knees. And the stranger with the long eyelashes hugged her. He held her close and said nothing.

Claire collapsed into him and held. Piers waited for her to cry. But she didn't cry. She just kept holding on. He stroked her hair and said, softly, "Ms. Redfield? You're safe now. I promise. I won't let them take you again. I swear."

Claire gripped his vest and said, against his neck, "It's Claire. Claire. Or you can call me Redfield. But it's Claire."

"….Claire."

She was the strongest thing he'd ever seen. Dirty, frightened, and wounded -she come at him in the dark like a Valkyrie. She might have beaten him too if he'd be a normal man without training. She almost had anyway. With nothing but a butcher knife and a ripped dress and little slippers. Her red hair was all over the place. It was curls and curls and madness. It smelled like flowers. She smelled like something fruity and sweet. Like sweet tarts and bubblegum.

What had Leon Kennedy said to him? Anytime you go out and fight, you could die. Take your joy where you can. Find yourself a nice girl and put that pretty face to work on her. Claire Redfield shifted in his arms.

She moved her face. He turned his. She said, "You have ten foot long eye lashes."

"….do I?"

"You do."

Her eyes were very blue this close. He said, "You have red hair..."

"Like the little mermaid?"

"Like a clown."

And they held gazes. She finally let out a laugh. A good laugh. She laughed and felt it in her bones. He had about as much charm as a fart. Which reminded her of Steve Burnside in a way. And she'd liked Steve. A great deal.

"That's not very flattering, Piers Nivans."

"….shit. Sorry." And he laughed a little bit. "But it took your mind off stuff, right?"

Oh. Clever guy. She glanced at his mouth. And was surprised she could think about kissing considering what had happened to her. But that was the thing about surviving. Sometimes you just did it. And you didn't look back. You just…pulled a Chris Redfield and punched grief right in the face.

She said, "Is there a Mrs. Eyelashes at home making you Dakos?"

Her knowledge of Greek culture was pretty good for a woman who'd spent one summer there. Piers smiled a little. "No. No Mrs. Eyelashes."

"That's good."

"Is it?" He lifted a brow.

"Right now. I think yes. The girl should always kiss the hero, right? So just…stay right there..." And she kissed him.

Oh. He blinked. And then he pressed back against her. And it was a good kiss. Soft. Smooth. And sweet. It resonated. It didn't hurt at all.

And it didn't scare her.

She didn't weep. She didn't run. She just…pressed back. And finally her body slackened against his and went limp.

Piers leaned back to see her face. And he realized she'd fallen asleep…mid kiss.

He'd put Claire Redfield to sleep by kissing her. A reverse of Snow White, he'd literally, bored her to sleep. Awesome. He was the kid that kissed a girl to sleep. Fail.

He settled on the floor with a little chuckle and snuggled her against his side. And he let her sleep. He didn't sleep. Nope. He protected her.

And waited for the sun to rise.

* * *

The dream was almost worse than the act of it. Almost. Because the dream never went away.

The dream stayed.

The dream gave him more power. The dream let him use her. The dream made her LOVE IT.

Her red hair wrapped around them. Her red hair blended with the icy blonde. Her red and his red, his red, red, red eyes as the opened and locked on hers. His hands on her body, on her face, his tongue on her body, in her body, on her breasts.

The dream made her love it. She loved it. She loved his smooth skin. She loved the perfect muscle beneath the pale, pale flesh. He'd cupped her and tipped her back and put his mouth to her slick, slick, needy little center. And, the disgusting mortal enemy of her family name, he speared his tongue into her throbbing sheath and swirled, swirled, swirled until she bowed, bowed, and bucked against his face.

She didn't even fight him. In the dreams, she never fought. She just let him. She let him spill his palms over her breasts and play there. She let him whisper in her ear, " _What do you dream of, Claire? Do you dream of me inside of you?_ "

And he'd part her legs. He'd part her legs and push his way into her body. He was huge. He was throbbing. He was a massive cock with no remorse. Her body bowed, her mouth opened in a silent scream. She dreamed of his massive girth splitting, splitting, RIPPING her open as he plummeted there into her heat. And her hands came up to grab his horrible face. Red. RED RED **RED** eyes on her.

 _Claire. Claire. CLAIRE._

 _ **Do you dream of me inside of you?**_

...yes. Yes. **YES.** Her damning answer. Her dream. Her dream that allowed her body to come for him, around him, gasping and giving. She gave him the answers. She gave him anything he wanted. She gave up and let him have her. All of her. All the time.

Her hatred was like an aphrodisiac. The dream coveted him. Coveted and craved and wanted him. It wanted her body to ACHE for his disgusting touch. She slapped and cried and gave up. She just let him pound her into the soft, soft mattress where she lay…she lay…so peacefully letting him fuck her.

The dream was so much worse. Because the dream never went away.

In truth, he hadn't kept her dangling for long. He'd lost interest in that quickly enough. Never a man that lingered when it didn't suit him, he'd shot her full of that drug and made sure she knew how bad it could get. And then he'd let her down from her bonds.

She'd fought back. In the dream she fought back harder. The dream wasn't perfect. It made her stronger than she'd been. She'd bloodied his face. She'd done that. That had actually happened.

He'd kissed her and she'd head butted him. Chris would have been proud of her. And then? Then she'd opened her mouth and let him fill it with his tongue.

Ugh.

He'd touched her, almost gently. He'd touched her belly and her thighs. That had happened.

And the dream swirled around to tell her the worst of it. The worst of it. He'd touched her and she'd been disgusted and horrified and aroused. Aroused. Aroused as he played at her body and played with her body and seemed bored.

Bored.

She knew nothing to tell him. Didn't he understand that? She knew NOTHING to tell him. She didn't know where Sherry was. She knew nothing. She wouldn't tell him if he peeled off her flesh and bones and burned them and filled her with infection.

He had, in a way, he'd filled her with infection. She'd burned. He'd washed her, he'd fed her, he'd seemed to polite, so utterly polite. And he'd shot her full of that drug.

She'd slapped him. She'd spit at him. She'd shivered when he touched her. God. It was awful. It was like being out of control and trapped in your own head. She pushed against him, she pulled at him to touch him. He let her. He let her touch him.

Her hands on his arms. Her hands on his face. Her hands shoving him away as she cursed him. Where is Sherry, Claire? Where is the safety banks located, Claire? Claire…Claire…CLAIRE.

She hated her name. She hated the way he said it. She hated him. Hated him. As he climbed on top of her and used her body. The dream let him do it. The dream let him climb on top of her. The dream let him pull her into his muscled grip and touch her. The dream made him go beyond the bored, thoughtless, playing he'd done at her body. It let him fuck her. It let him part her thighs and pull her atop his enormous cock and ride. Ride. Ride and die.

The dream let him part her pert, bubbly little bottom and slide her slick, soaking, dripping center all over his hungry dick. And then? The dream let her rise up on that pumping body and kill him.

The dream let her rear back and slit his throat and watch the light die…finally…finally…finally..in that red, red, red dead gaze.

The dream let Albert Wesker fuck her. And it let Albert Wesker die at her hand.

The dream was the ying-yang torture of her soul.

The dream reminded her that she'd laid beneath him and opened for him. It reminded her that she'd opened her legs to him. It reminded her that she was human, and lost, and drowning.

It reminded her that she'd watched the injection bobble on a table by her bed and never once, never once, reached for itself. She just...took him and let him take her...and submitted.

The dream punished her for submitting. It wouldn't let her rest.

* * *

She hadn't slept in days. Maybe years. Maybe a hundred years. It felt longer. It felt like she hadn't slept since the DAWN OF TIME. But she slept like a baby curled up against a stranger.

When her eyes drifted open, she had one hand curled into his vest and her mouth pressed, so so softly, against the place where his neck and chin met. She'd not only slept on him; she'd cuddled him, like a teddy bear, in sleep. She was so NOT a snuggler…but, in this moment, she wasn't inclined to shift away.

The early morning light showed his face to perfection. He was young. She hadn't realized how young. She wondered how much younger he was then her. Or was he even? Age was so hard to guesstimate with people. She wasn't yet thirty herself but she was betting he was going to be barely in his twenties…barely.

She could feel the roll of muscle under her hand as she shifted. He made a little sigh and rolled his head toward her. And there it was, all ten feet of those eyelashes, looking soft and perfect on his cheeks. In the daylight, that face wasn't just pretty – it was killer. He had a good strong jaw and a broad forehead and thick, dark brows. It was hard to discern his build under all his combat gear, but he seemed lithe and athletic. Judging him to be sleeping soundly, Claire edged up his vest, just a little, to see the perfect suggestion of a six pack under it.

Yep.

Athletic.

She lowered his vest, trying to be quiet, and froze.

Because he was watching her.

And he said, "Looking for a wire under there?"

Claire held that amused gaze, realized his eyes were a strong whiskey gold, and finally laughed. Oh it felt so good to laugh. She'd been afraid she'd never laugh again.

"You caught me being a peeping tom."

"So it seems." He shifted a little and his butt was asleep. "I usually ask a girl to buy me dinner before I let her peep on my junk."

Claire felt a little warm in the face. Oh, wonderful. WONDERFUL. She was embarrassed. Just great. What a way to start out her morning.

"…I'm at a loss for words here."

Piers chuckled, highly amused. "We can pretend it's hostage PTSD."

Claire was blushing. Blushing. And he found it utterly charming. He thought she was, without a doubt, probably the prettiest girl he'd seen in a long time. And the blushing? It was the clencher.

She shifted to brush her teeth. Piers, sitting on the floor still, watched her. In the daylight, her skin was porcelain. It was smooth and pale and freckled, just a little, across that pert little nose. She bent over to spit and it brought your attention to the fact that she had, without a doubt, the curviest little butt he'd ever seen. Like a bubble.

Shaking himself, Piers rose from the floor. He had not been asked, directly, by the IMMORTAL to come on this mission and make googoo eyes at the subject. Terrible. And not at all like him. He was a dedicated man, driven, and looking to make a name for himself in the world of bioterrorism defense. That wasn't done by chasing after the sister of CHRIS REDFIELD and the best friend of LEON KENNEDY.

The idea was almost painfully comic.

He said, "Claire? We should move out. We have a rendezvous point on the west side of the forest where the town is. If we move, we can be there in about an hour."

Claire nodded and watched him while he brushed his teeth, while they split a meal, and geared up. She took his spare handgun and he carried his assault rifle. He had an ENORMOUS sniper rifle of some kind strapped to his back.

She queried, "Where are we?"

And Piers answered, prepping his pack, "The Black Forest. Germany."

AWESOME, Claire thought sarcastically, EUROPE. Why was she always in Europe running around in mansions and hiding from monsters!? WHY!?

Holding up a hand, Piers had her wait while he cleared the area outside of the hut. He was smooth and efficient. The badge on his arm said Special Forces. He cleared and came back, gesturing with his head.

Claire took up position behind him and they started out into the woods. They walked in silence for a little while, listening to birds chirping and feeling the breeze and the cool morning sunlight that dappled in shadows where it fell. The boots she wore were perfectly sized. The clothes were a little big at the waist but snug at the top. She was, in one shining moment, her brother…wearing a shirt that was too tight for her.

But it made her chest look obscenely big. She'd always been chesty. Even as a girl, she'd had a good rack on her. She'd been teased in highschool for being part of the "big titty committee". It had horrified and shamed her then. Now? It was something she simply shrugged off and dealt with. Like having a squeaky voice or two left feet, it was just part of who she was.

She'd always been the "stocky" girl of her friends. A little broader of shoulder, a little wider of hip. She'd never been slim and bright and willowy. She'd been a little chunky in grade school and had dieted and worked her ass off ever since to maintain her hourglass shape.

Now she was a svelte one-twenty, sometimes less depending, and maybe A LOT less these days since she'd been STARVING for days and made her peace with not being the Hollywood standard of pretty that seemed to permeate the media. She was all kinds of red hair and big eyes and freckles. She was curvy and average height and…hell on WHEELS in a fist fight. That came from having an older brother that was CONSTANTLY fucking with her his whole life.

As kids, he'd been a real pain in the ass about it. As a teenager, he'd taught her to stand on her own and fight her own battles. After their parents death, he'd raised her, he'd guided her, he'd taught her to drive a car, drive a punch, and drive away unwanted male suitors. Chris didn't insert himself into her business. He let her do her own thing. He wasn't a bossy pain in the ass…most of the time.

And the boy escorting her to safety wanted to meet him.

Claire said, "He's on a mission, my brother, he's on a mission. But when he gets back…I'll introduce you."

Piers, surprised, glanced at her face. "Really? You don't even know me."

"You didn't kill me under that bridge," They stopped and Piers secured the strap on his pack that had shaken loose, "You didn't kill me in the hut where, I'm pretty sure, you stayed awake almost all night protecting me. You brought me clothes, you fed me, you carried me at some point…."

"That's just my job, Claire. It doesn't make me a hero." He was AWARE of the area they were in too. She could see the Leon Kennedy level of intelligence on his face. He just KNEW they weren't safe here. Or were safe. Or had never been safe. He just knew.

"No. But it gives you integrity. And Chris likes dedication and integrity. You let me peep on you this morning and laughed about it. So, you're also relaxed enough to appreciate humor. Fair warning, my brother has a stick up his ass. A BIG ONE. But underneath that?" They paused again and Piers shifted to grab her arm. Because she wavered. "Underneath the professional façade? BIG on humor. He likes jokes. Be funny, you'll be his favorite person earth."

He was watching her face…so he didn't it when it came out from behind the tree. But she saw it. She pointed the gun right beside his startled face and pulled the trigger. The echo of it was SO LOUD in the quiet forest. But the guy with the hatchet in his hand that had been about to cleave Piers' head from his handsome shoulders was now sporting a very blood, very ugly, very permanent third eye.

Piers spun and the body dropped into the dead leaves, twitching.

Claire stumbled a little. But she was a Redfield…her aim hadn't failed her under pressure.

She said, softly, "We need to hurry, Piers. Now. He's released Ganado. He must have pulled Jill for some reason. He's sent the B-Team. That's better. It's better…and worse. WORSE. Because the B-Team didn't use to bone my brother and they can't be reached to feel sorry for us. Do you know about Ganados?"

Piers grabbed her elbow to help her steady and then they started moving; quickly. She stayed at his six, which impressed him. A philanthropist or not, she'd put a clean shot right between that hostile's eyes without blinking. She wasn't just a normal girl.

He said, "I read the Kennedy Report. I was briefed by the man himself when we flew out here."

"Yeah. You said that. Leon's here? Where?"

"He and Sherry set out apart to cover the four points. I took Walsh and went this way. My guess? He's near the village."

Claire had to laugh. She had to. Poor Leon. He SOOOO hated rural little European villages. "Great. GREAT. He's gonna be fucking THRILLED to discover another village full of Ganado."


	14. Liberation

**Stage Fourteen: Liberation**

* * *

He was NOT thrilled.

He was, however, fucking pissed off like a prom date that had been groped by an overly eager date. He could FEEL the angry blood in his head. It rushed, pumped, and made him feel like he wanted to drop kick a grenade into the town square and just let it blow everything sky high.

Beside him, Sherry said, softly, "What? What's wrong?"

"Those people in that town?" She was looking through her binoculars. A woman was hanging laundry. A man was cleaning a dead chicken. Another was bailing hay.

"What about them?"

"Those aren't people."

She lowered her binoculars and met his eyes. "What?"

Leon shook his head and turned, scanning the surrounding perimeter. The little town was pinpointed on the map. It was aptly named Verdammt. It was slightly bigger than the stupid village where Ashley Graham had been kept. SLIGHTLY.

And Leon muttered, "Fick mich."

Sherry giggled a little and he glanced at her face. She answered, "I can't right now. But that doesn't mean I don't want to."

Amused, Leon winked at her and sighed. "Those are Ganado."

"What? How can you be sure?"

The second she asked, she was kinda embarrassed. Who else would know better? But she was curious how he could tell from a hundred yards out.

"Ganado are pretty fucking clever," He glanced back in his binoculars at them, "They can be hard to discern from humans. The only difference that I've found, outwardly? Is the eyes. Zoom in on the eyes."

She did now, utilizing the massive zoom of the military grade NOCS she was using. She zoomed in on the woman hanging laundry. She was pretty. Young. And had blonde hair in a bun. And her eyes? We're bloodshot, red, and weepy.

"Oh…ohhhhh." Surprised, she met ones that weren't. But in the early morning German air, in the pale gray light of a foggy day that promised rain, his were beautiful. And irritated.

She said, "Did you think it would be a cake walk then, Agent Kennedy?"

Leon laughed and sighed. "Hoped is a better word. It's unlikely they have Claire in the village. Honestly? We can bypass the town altogether and probably be alright."

Sherry held his eyes now. "You want to leave a village full of infected mutants free to just…roam the countryside?"

Oh.

Surprised, he held her gaze. Shit. She was going to be noble.

She didn't understand the simple truth he was trying to impart to her here: you didn't survive to fight again if you were always playing the hero. They were out numbered, out gunned, and it was SUICIDE to storm the village and try to eradicate the threat there.

He said, "If we go in that town cracking off shots and blowing shit up, we alert the surrounding villages. We have NO CLUE how wide the infection has spread. The control on this village indicates a master, similar to Saddler, close by. You can't fight a hundred of them at once and survive, Sherry. And if we die? Claire stays trapped."

Sherry eyed him. "We can't leave all these infected people just running around, Leon. Imagine what damage they could do."

"I agree. I'll radio back and get back up out here to clean up the mess. Don't worry, sweetheart, there are protocols in place for things like this. Us? We need to stay under the radar here. Or we can't help, Claire. That's our primary objective here. Rescue Claire. After that? We can start blowing shit up and pulling a Redfield." He was using that little communicator in his hand to send messages.

Most likely his handler.

He touched his ear. "Hunnigan?"

"Leon Kennedy," The girl on the other end laughed a little, "You devil. You went off the grid on me. I was starting to think you'd gotten yourself killed."

"No such luck, dollface. I was running down leads for Adam."

"Oh, he told me this morning in the briefing. The POTUS is aware what a wildcard you are, Leon. But even your long, long leash has limits. What's the word there? I've got your position pulled up as Baden-Baden? Why are you in Germany?" Hunnigan was tapping keys on her end on her computer.

"I tracked Claire Redfield to here. I'm utilizing assistance from Special Forces to locate and acquire her."

"Good. You have Agent Birkin with you?"

"I do."

"Derek Simmons is NOT happy about it, Leon. She didn't get permission to accompany you. She's, technically, AWOL."

Leon glanced at her face as she studied Ganados through her NOCS. AWOL. She'd gone AWOL to come with her. Little fool…he loved her like something stupid and dangerous and painful.

"I'll take the fall for it. I didn't know she needed permission. Tell Simmons I requested her assistance."

Hunnigan chuckled a little, "Will do but you should know, Simmons is pushing to get you fired. He thinks you're a loose cannon."

"He's fucking right about that." And they both laughed. "Hunnigan, this village is over run. Like Spain. There's Ganado three deep here."

"Shit. Seriously?"

"Oh yeah. Get the POTUS to sign a detox order and get the BSAA to start cleaning house here."

"Will do. You think it's wise to send out the call? Chris Redfield is the agent on tap here for that. How will he feel to know you didn't tell him his sister was missing?"

Leon laughed and shrugged but she couldn't see him of course. "Get Burton to run interference there. He was in deep cover. He couldn't be pulled. And I can handle Chris Redfield."

Hunnigan chuckled on her end. "I'm writing the report now. Stay clear of danger and locate the subject. Don't do anything too stupid, Leon."

"Would I? Me? Come on now."

They both laughed.

"I said don't do anything TOO stupid. I know better than to hope you can get out of there without making a mess."

"I resent that, Hunnigan. Really. You've hurt my feelings."

Hunnigan snorted. "You're a grenade, Leon Kennedy. You can't do anything but make a mess on a mission. Why do we put up with you?"

"I'm charming. The ladies love me. And I have good hair."

"…which is totally useless for anything other than making your pretty face even prettier."

Leon chuckled and didn't see Sherry giving him a very long look. "You're fond of my pretty face, Hunnigan."

"At the moment? I'm doing a lot of cleaning up behind the mess it's leaving. I'm not terribly fond of it."

"You love me. Let me know when there's boots on the ground."

"Will do. BE GOOD."

Leon laughed and clicked off his communicator. He turned and came face to face with Sherry's pursed lips and wry expression. He lifted a brow at her.

"What?"

"….I'd heard the stories of course."

"What stories?" He studied her face. "About what?"

"About you. And that."

"…what?" He laughed a little now. Because she looked quite irritated.

"Do you ever NOT flirt with girls?" She sounded so exasperated. She looked amused though so he knew she wasn't mad. She was just…curious.

Leon considered it as he picked up the shotgun and slung it over his back. He was in a smooth splice wool military style jacket with a high collar. It fit around his slim torso and insulated against the German chill. The cut was long and hit him midthigh. It played off the buttery leather tactical gloves he wore and paired well with the hounds tooth scarf looped easily around his neck. Beneath the jacket? There was no fabulous fashion happening. It was Kevlar and leather and meant to resist and repel attacks. He'd worn it over moisture wicking black beneath. The fatigues he wore were navy and full of pockets carrying various things. Each thigh was strapped with ammo or his spare sidearm or a knife. He was, a walking warrior in thousands of dollars worth of designer clothes.

And he was a NOTORIOUS flirt.

He replied, easily, "I do it without thinking, honestly. Does it bother you?"

Sherry's jacket mirrored his. It was similar in style with a high sweeping collar but in a good pea green. She wore her hair tucked up into a dark sock hat to cover her ears and had a little white scarf looped over her delicate throat. Her cheeks were pink and pretty from the fall chill. Her legs encased in dark brown and tucked into beige boots.

She considered her answer. "It doesn't bother me exactly. But I'm curious about why it's different with me then with other girls. You are…well…you're known for being a ladies man. I'm just curious how much of problem that should be for me."

Oh.

Oh shit. He stopped walking to meet her eyes now. He took her arm to stop her to face him. "Are you asking me if I'm going to be faithful to you?"

She considered this again. He could see her digesting it.

"I'm not sure that's something we even discussed before now. I don't…is that something you want? To be together?"

He raised both brows now, holding her gaze. "You're mine, Sherry. Mine. That means only mine. That's not something you want?"

Jesus.

She was standing in the cold German air having Leon Kennedy ask her if she wanted him. Did she want him? Was that the stupidest question anyone had ever asked? EVER?

Her silence actually…well…it made him a little nervous. And it humbled him. Because this would be the first women he'd actually wanted to keep…that maybe didn't want the same.

The tip of his nose was red. It was what was playing through her head as she stood there watching him. That face of his, it made her warm in her belly. And his nose, aquiline and sharp, was pink on the tip. As he breathed, curls of foggy white emerged, indicating how cold the air was around them. His ears were a little pink beneath his perfect hair as well.

Shit.

She still hadn't answered.

He started to drop his hand from her arm and she swung her little pack from her back and started digging in it. Leon started walking again. She realized, maybe a moment too late, that she might have hurt his feelings. And it warmed her to know she could.

"Hey!" She called after him and jogged to catch up.

And yep. Yes. His face was closed down. It was cool. It was the face of the guy who'd faced her down in that hotel room when she'd first come upon him. She'd hurt his feelings.

And hadn't meant to.

Sherry said, "Hey. Stop. Here, stop." And took his arm.

He stopped and lifted a brow at her. Sherry laughed a little, softly. "You wonderful smart and stupid man."

"…your compliments need work, Birkin."

She laughed again and tugged him down to her. She didn't kiss him though, she poked a black sock hat on his head and secured it over his ears. The instant warmth was pretty great. She said, "You're mine. Mine. Do you think I've spent ten years chasing you to let you slip away?"

And now she tugged his collar and put their faces close. "Mine. Stop flirting with girls so much."

"I don't know if I can. It's like breathing for me."

"You better try harder, Kennedy. Or I'll make you a ghost for real."

He laughed and kissed her. She put her hands around his collar and went on tip toe to get closer. Her leg actually kicked out at the knee. It went SWOOP and came up. Like a Hollywood movie. She hadn't even been aware that kissing actually made legs do that.

And a heavily accented voice said, in guttural German, "Ich werde dich töten."

Leon shoved her behind him and the roar, roar, roar of gasoline and metal and jagged teeth was loud as the sound of a chainsaw firing up filled the quiet morning air. The man wielding it was fat. Super fat. His enormous fat belly jiggled like Santa Claus beneath his filthy white shirt. The shirt had brown stains all over it and sweat stains at the armpits. His smell, caught in the cool breeze, was ripe and rich with body odor.

His face was hairy and greasy. He was missing an eye. The socket was just…empty. It was empty and filmed over with a little flap of tissue that pulsed when he breathed. His beefy hands held that roaring, rusty, deadly chainsaw above his head without hesitation.

Leon swung the shotgun to his shoulder and Sherry was already firing.

He jacked a shell in the chamber and they heard it. They heard the rustle of leaves and feet rushing. They heard the yelling. The town was coming.

They didn't have time now to stand here facing off with a fat chainsaw man.

Sherry shot him in the face anyway. The chainsaw man didn't care. He started running with that fat belly jiggling. Leon shot him with the heavy Mossberg clean in the chest. It took flesh, bone, and sprayed blood in a burst. And that didn't slow him down either.

They separated; Sherry went left and Leon right. They split his focus. He chose Leon as the greater threat and started advancing. Sherry shot him again in the back and jerked.

Someone had thrown something at her.

She looked down at the broken bottle on the ground beside her and turned. There were dozens of them coming. She shot three in the face before she yelled, "LEON! We have to run!"

He'd blasted the fat chainsaw man twice more with the shotgun. The fat gut was oozing and spilling intestine from the mangled cavity. He was unfazed. He just kept coming. The chainsaw came down and Leon ducked left to miss it taking him at the neck and shoulder.

He threw out a leg and tripped the chainsaw man as he went. The fat man stumbled, hit a tree, and the chainsaw bucked and roared into the bark. It sprayed chunks and sent birds squawking in anger. Leon shot him in the back of the head with the shotgun.

It worked, the chainsaw man flopped, face gone and went down like a felled tree. But he swung the roaring chainsaw as he went. It clipped Leon along the side of the face like a mailed fist. The shotgun went spinning as he tried to keep from being knocked unconscious.

He went over onto his back while stars burst, literally, in front of his eyes.

Sherry grabbed his jacket and jerked. He was tossed, sharp and quick, to his feet. She looped his arm over her shoulders and forced him into a run with her. Impressed, he let his body do its job and run.

They ran while forty infected freaks gave chase, shouting and throwing things.

Sherry kept him upright while they fled. And he saw what she meant. She was strong. She was fast. She was able to move him without flagging. He gathered enough strength to separate from her finally and they kept running.

They hit the far side of the forest and burst into a courtyard. An enormous mansion waited there, clearly Romanesque in influence, easily identified by its round arches in conjunction with bulky-appearing stone masses in thick, fortress-like walls. God, he HATED European mansions and castles. Nothing good waited inside of there.

Nothing.

They rushed across the courtyard and the doors were opened as if someone were waiting for them. With no other choice, they burst inside the foyer of the beautiful mansion and spun back, slamming the doors behind them.

The vaulted ceilings were beautiful and the tapestries, the rugs, and furniture were old and distinguished. The house smelled of lemon and rosemary. The mansion was well maintained and beautiful from one stone wall to the other.

Damn these gothic style buildings. Creepy. Creepy and closed off and isolated and…full of cobwebs and nightmares.

There was a high pitched laugh from behind them.

They spun, together, and were both aiming at the top of the long staircase.

And then? Well…there were other reasons he hated European castles and mansions. And it wasn't just enclosed spaces and narrows hallways and jump scares.

The biggest guy alive was coming down the stairs. He was in a silver tuxedo. Silver. It glittered like a Broadway dancer's costume as he moved. His handsome face was all jaw, all little natty beard, and sparkling eyes. He was freakishly tall. He was muscled like a Greek god. And he was carrying a very, very, very sharp katana.

"Oh, how eccitante!" And he had a thick Italian accent that was surprisingly high pitched and sorta girly, "Albert said to wait. He said to me. WAIT ALESIO…WAIT. HE KNEW you were coming! He knew. He is so brilliant. He is Dumbledore, yes? Never misses a trick."

Leon answered him now, breathing heavily from their run, "You're gonna want to stop right there, big guy. Right there. You keep coming down those stairs with that big ass sword and I'm gonna make your pretty jacket look like swiss cheese."

Alesio stopped, blinking. And he laughed.

He laughed.

"Oh…oh oh oh! You are brave! You are a…what is it the Germans call it? Shattenwolfe? The shadow wolf yes? The man who hunts the unknown. You have come for my red haired beauty no doubt? My Redfield."

Sherry spoke now, loudly, "Where is she!? You have Claire? Give her to us – NOW."

Alesio turned his attention to Sherry and grinned. "A sprite. A fiery sprite. A small and beautiful sprite come to fight for her…mother? No. Sister? No. For her lover?"

He glanced at Leon and back at Sherry. "And no again. For that floats around the two of you like a ghost. Well…no worries…she is GONE. Fled. Run for the hills as they say. She is no longer in my care…but there is good news!"

Sherry snorted a little, "What's that?"

"You are here to take her place!"

"What kinda crack you been smokin, big guy?" Leon asked, tilting his head, "This look like a surrender to you?"

"I do love that quaint American slang. What is "crack"?" Alesio shrugged and laid his sword on the ground. "There! I have surrendered my weapon. I am no threat. Now you may lower yours."

Sherry glanced at Leon. He kept his gun trained. So, she did too.

Alesio's smile wilted around the edges. "It is rude to offer violence when none has been exhibited toward you. I tire of this rudeness. Lay down your guns."

Leon laughed a little. "How about you lay down instead? We'll cuff you and then, maybe, we'll put up our guns."

Alesio studied him. "I like your pretty face. I dislike your uncouth behavior. I will rid you of it quickly."

Sherry shouted in surprise as he moved. He just ran. Leon fired and hit him in the chest. He didn't stop. Sherry drilled him twice and he backhanded her. She went up and out and hit the far wall, sliding to the ground.

Leon ducked, missed the same fate, and shoved his gun into the other man's groin as he went into a crouch. He fired twice and watched the blood burst all over that flashy silver suit. Alesio grunted, grabbed his throat, and jerked him off his feet.

He shook him hard enough to toss his body like a doll and gnash his teeth together. "Pretty fool! I will enjoy playing with you."

Leon kicked him in the face while he shook him. Alesio recoiled and punched him in the stomach. It felt like being kicked by a buffalo.

Sherry shot Alesio twice in the back and he shifted, twisted, and threw Leon at her.

They crashed together and came down in a heap.

Alesio drove his boot down and Leon caught it, twisted, and rolled. He drove his own foot into the exposed groin of the other man twice, humped his body up, and jerked his leg. Alesio went off balance and down onto one knee.

Sherry ran for the katana on the stairs.

Alesio caught the side kick Leon threw at his face, spun him away, and grabbed him around the waist. He tossed the smaller man over his shoulder, rose to his feet, and rolled him into his arms like a baby. Leon let him do it, spilled against his chest, and drove his combat knife hilt deep into it.

The other man gasped in surprise and bobbled him. Leon jerked the knife clean in a spray arch and Alesio dropped to one knee and let go of him. Leon hit that knee with his back and it hurt. It hurt and stole his breath. Alesio, seizing the advantage, gushing blood like a geyser…and showing no sign of slowing down…twisted the wrist with the combat knife and reversed it.

Sherry shouted out a warning and Alesio shoved Leon's own knife into his chest. Sherry drove the katana forward into his back at the same time. The tip of it burst out of Alesio's chest in a red eruption.

He shouted, jerked the knife out of Leon and shoved him away. Leon rolled across the floor and was still. Alesio grabbed the blade of the sword and jerked it forward. He pulled it through him while he gasped with pain.

Sherry let go of it in shock and he turned, grabbed her jacket and jerked her off her feet. She screamed as he impaled her on the sword that stuck like a stinger out of his chest. It went through her chest and straight out her back, popping muscle and bone and throwing blood. The floor was soaked with it. It was red, red, red everywhere you looked.

Alesio grinned at her. He grinned and jerked her back off the sword. The pain was awful. It was immediate. She screamed and bled in red rivers of pain. He shoved her back on the sword, pulled her off, and shoved her back on.

She couldn't count the number of times he did it. Ten, twelve? She didn't know. Finally, she'd lost so much blood she just slumped in his arms. He lifted a brow at her face.

"You don't die? Why?"

And then his eyes lit up. "OH! You are Albert's GIRL! You are his specimen! You HEAL!" He sounded so delighted. He skimmed his hand over her chest to see all the wounds. "You are his girl? No? Let's see!"

He drove the combat knife into her chest and she screamed again, soundlessly.

Alesio pulled it out and watched the wound knit and close.

"YES! BELISSIMA! I will KEEP YOU! I will take you to him. He will be so happy. So so so so happy."

Alesio drove her against him again, watching her body jerk and flop, watching her bleed. "Oh, you are so perfect! Such a tiny fiery treat." He lifted her up and licked her chest like a dog. He rolled his face in her blood. He shivered. "Oh, it is so good. I will make you mine. You will be good if I keep your lover yes? He is pretty. I will torture him and make him sing for you. You will like that?"

Sherry was so pale in his arms. She dangled, blinking. And she coughed, bubbling blood. "…if you touch him…I will destroy you."

"…oh you fiery treat. You are so perfect. I will be gentle. I will only bleed him while I fuck him. He will like it. I promise. For you, I will be gentle. Like a baby." He kissed her bloody mouth.

And then he gasped, gasped, and the spitting sword was ripped from his body.

He dropped Sherry to the ground and turned.

Leon lifted it…and his form was perfect with it.

Alesio laughed. "You will fight for her? You know I will kill you yes? And she will cry."

"I'll take my chances. You're a one sick fuck, you know that?" They circled each other. Sherry was crawling across the floor, bleeding.

Alesio sighed. "So few understand the purpose of real art. I am not sick. I am gifted .But, often, the gifted are seen as insane. Come here and let me kiss you. I will let you taste her blood. You will love it. I will put my mouth to your body and bleed you and lick you and love you."

Leon shuddered in disgust. "Does that ever actually get someone to drop their pants?"

"Come here and I will show you."

"You first, big guy."

There was no blood on his coat. Apparently, the knife had hit his vest and stopped there. His poor face was swollen and bleeding but he'd live. Sherry, currently lying face down on the stairs, wasn't looking so good. He felt the roll of fear in his veins.

"Come on, fatty. I don't have all day."

"Fatty!? I am MUSCLE."

"Prove it. From here? Looks like blubber. Like a whale. Is Alesio Italian for Orca?"

Sherry actually laughed weakly from the stairs. It was like music in his ears. Maybe she wasn't so far gone after all.

"Pretty fool. I will fuck you bloody while she watches and cries. I tire of your bad jokes."

Leon tried to look offended. "The jokes are good. Don't be mean about the jokes because you're fat and ugly. It's not their fault."

Alesio rushed him. Admittedly, the big guy was fucking fast. Like a blur. Leon swung the sword perfectly, smoothly, and felt it slice clean through that suit and into the body beyond it. He ducked the swing of one massive arm and got the other in the face for it. Alesio punched him clean in his face and jerked the sword from him.

His poor face.

He staggered back, feeling his ears ring, and spit blood on the ground. A quick hand across his bleeding mouth told him all his teeth were still in there…hopefully. Alesio swung the sword and only sheer luck saved his life.

Leon tripped on his own shoelace and went onto his butt, skidding across the ground in the blood. The sword took his hat and sent it flying in two pieces. His hair spilled around his ears and into one eye and his back hit the wall. It thrummed and he gritted his teeth around the pain of it.

Alesio made a delighted sound. "PRETTY! Like a girl! Like a Princess. Are you a princess? Your shiny hair, your pretty face…your blood is pretty."

There was the sound of gunfire now. Three good shots and her pistol clicked empty.

Leon knew what was coming. He pushed to his feet but he wouldn't get there in time.

Alesio turned to Sherry and he just…he just backhanded her. She wasn't even up from the stairs completely. He knocked her so hard she went over the railing and onto the floor beneath it. She lay there, breathing, but still.

"She is brave for you. I can't blame her. You are gorgeous." Alesio put the tip of the sword to Sherry's face on the floor. "But you are also done fighting. Stop. Or we will see if she can survive the brain."

Leon was three feet from him. He stopped, vibrating.

"Good man. Not a complete American idiot. Throw your last weapons away. Adesso!"

Leon shifted his hands to his sidearm on his thigh and tossed it. He lifted his hands to show them empty. "Alright. You win. What do you want?"

Alesio sighed dramatically. "You are still armed. Take off the coat."

Leon undid the buttons on his coat and spread it open. "Just vest. No weapons. Let her go and come frisk me for them."

"Oh…you tempting little thing. You want me to touch you?"

Ugh.

Leon glanced down at Sherry as she shifted on the floor. And the blade of the sword so, so close to her temple. He said, "Yep. Yup. Come on over and pat me down."

Alesio narrowed his eyes. "You will fight me."

"I won't. Scout's honor. Just leave her alone."

Sighing, Alesio picked Sherry up by her jacket and threw her against the wall…and spitted her there on the sword. He drove it through her chest and pinned her there to dangle. She shouted. Leon shouted.

Alesio rushed him.

Leon backed up and flipped. Those hands passed inches from him as he skidded and landed. They circled each other again. Alesio said, "Be still! Or I will kill her. Stop!"

"I think you're gonna kill her anyway, Al. So I don't think it's a good idea to just give up."

Alesio stopped pacing and looked down. Sherry's pistol was by his foot. He tilted his head like a dog. Leon stopped as well…his pistol was three feet away.

Alesio grinned. "This goes badly for you, yes? Want to try for it?"

"I'm pretty quick."

"I heard that about American men. They are very quick. Don't last long at all."

Leon blinked. And then he laughed. "Well…shit. You calling me a two pump chump?"

"What is the saying? If the hat fits, one must wear it?"

Leon glanced at his gun again. Alesio tilted his head back the other way. "Try for it. We will see how long you last."

Sherry was putting her hands around the hilt of the katana. He needed Alesio's attention all on him. He needed her to get down and free. So, instead of diving for the gun, Leon lifted his hands and pushed his jacket off his arms.

It pooled on the floor.

Alesio giggled.

He just..giggled. Like a teenage girl.

"Oh! A strip show! Yes yes. More!"

Geezus. It was like a horny kid at a strip club. Alesio was about to start throwing dollar bills at him. Amused by the image, Leon unhooked the latches on his vest and let it fall off his back and to the floor with a clunk of armor plating.

Alesio squealed. The shirt beneath the vest was skin tight and showed, well, everything. It showed everything. Leon was also sweaty so it stuck to him like glue.

Alesio ducked down and grabbed the pistol by his foot. And trained it on Leon. "What a show! Shall we continue? The shirt next please."

Lord. He was going to be naked facing off with a psychotic pervert. It was a red letter day even for him. Leon inched closer to his gun on the floor.

Sherry almost had the sword free. But she was going to make noise when it was loose. He had to keep that attention on him. So maybe that meant a little stripper action.

Alesio was starting to get annoyed. Leon's hands went up and unhooked his holster. He let it dangle and grabbed the hem of his shirt. Alesio cocked the hammer of the gun. Utterly unnecessary but still made a good point.

Alesio said, almost conversationally, "Clearly you are a molto bello. Why do you fight? You should bring pleasure with your body. Instead you attempt to destroy it? Why? You are not meant to fight but for amore. I will keep you. I will give you both."

Ugh.

Sherry made a little sound. Alesio started to turn. Leon pulled off his shirt with a great flourish. And it was nice and cold so his body sprang with goosebumps. Alesio made a little sound like an eager cat.

"Come here. Come over and be nice to me. Maybe I will let you go."

Leon laughed now. He just laughed. Because the whole thing? It was ridiculous. "You're a bad liar, Al. I'm pretty sure you'll try to cornhole me if I come over there."

"Cornhole." Alesio was laughing now. "Americans and their slang. You are a racehorse. You need to be ridden. I will show you. Come here or I will shoot you."

So, he was shirtless with his shoulder holster dangling in a mansion in the Black Forest being oogled like eye candy by a dirty pervert with regenerative abilities. This was his Tuesday. This is what being Leon Kennedy got you. It was a shit road.

But Piers and Walsh knew where they were because he'd also left his communicator on during the whole exchange. HOPEFULLY they were coming. HOPEFULLY Alesio would NOT be coming…anytime soon. And, preferably, nowhere NEAR his cornhole.

But the wall was clear now. Bloody, but clear. Sherry was free.

So, Leon, very casually, started walking toward the other man.

Alesio said, again so casually, "You are all muscle. Let me touch you. Come here."

Eek.

Leon moved a little closer.

Alesio lifted a brow. "You are trying my patience. Get over here."

Yikes.

He moved a little closer and Alesio grabbed the strap of his shoulder holster and dragged him the rest of the way. He put one hand around Leon's throat and stroked his Adam's apple with his thumb. And then? Well, he pulled him up like he'd kiss him.

There was a very loud boom. A series of them. And Alesio didn't kiss him. But he did topple forward onto him. They went to the floor with the giant, muscled, perverted dude landing on top of a half naked Leon Kennedy and pinning him beneath that SUBSTANTIAL weight. And then he bled all over him because Sherry had filled him full of bullets. His face bled, his body bled, and he was very still.

Leon grunted beneath him.

Sherry yelled, "Are you ok?"

He went to answer and Alesio said, next to his ear, "She is so tasty. I will enjoy opening her up and touching her heart. Will she heal it?"

"You'll never fucking know."

"So brave…and stupid." Alesio leaned up and kissed him. Leon turned his head and the kiss slid over his cheek.

Sherry shouted and went for the katana where it lay on the floor in her blood.

Alesio licked his face like a dog. "I love feeling my blood pump all over you. Will you cry when she dies? Will you cry from those beautiful ocean eyes of yours while I kill you?"

Leon turned his head back, so slowly, and they were now mouth to mouth.

He said, softly, "You…won't…ever….know."

Alesio licked his mouth and whispered back, "You are caught. You are done. Relent and I will worship you. Fight and I will destroy you."

Leon smiled, wolfish and sharp. "I'll give you a fucking you'll never forget."

He wrapped his arm around that huge muscular body and pinned them together. Alesio looked excited and thrust his bleeding body against him. Leon used the other hand to drive the combat knife in it into that excited body.

He pinned the other man on top of him and just started stabbing. Alesio jerked, jerked, and gasped. Leon drove the blade into his chest and belly like a wild thing. It was short, fast, furious jabs that ripped and tore and brutalized. It was the last fucking that pervert was ever going to get.

Alesio reared up and Leon stayed pinned to him as he went. He kept on driving the knife into him. Alesio grabbed his throat and jerked. The knife ripped up through his sternum and shoulder as he tore Leon away from his body and threw him.

It wasn't an easy throw. It was a hard one. It was bad.

He threw him so hard that Leon, literally, flew through the archway and into the next room. He hit the long table there and slid across it, went off the other side, and rolled across the floor to smash into the fireplace.

Alesio started to rise, "I'm going to enjoy breaking you!"

"You won't ever touch him again!" Sherry's voice surprised him. He'd forgotten about her while playing his game with Leon. Which, was his fatal, mistake.

Sherry swung the sword. It whistled and struck. It sliced clean, fast, and deadly.

Blood dripped off the blade. Plop. Plop.

Plop.

A smooth line started on Alesio's pale neck. A thin, beautiful little line.

And then his head slid to one side and landed, wet and wide eyed, onto the floor beside his body. His neck pumped blood like a fountain, spilling it everywhere in a red, sticky mess. Sherry drove the katana into that frozen face for good measure and turned.

She ran. She ran into the dining room with the katana in her hands. Her heart was hammering.

He wasn't moving. He was in the fireplace, covering in ashes and blood. And he wasn't moving.


	15. Regression

**Stage Fifteen: Regression**

* * *

She dropped the katana and grabbed him, pulling him free. Her hands brushed aside all the soot and smeared black everywhere. She slapped his face, gently.

"Leon…Leon…LEON!"

The third time he shifted…and opened one eye.

Sherry smeared more soot around on his face. Damnit. She just couldn't tell how bad it was. But those eyes…those she could see in all the black. They were STARTLING amongst the darkness. Four shades of blue and beautiful.

"Are you alright? You're safe now. He's dead. I killed him. I won't let him touch you again."

She was comforting him. She was comforting and protecting him. She was…stroking his face and soothing him. She had him held with her arm around him, his head in her lap, and she was taking care of him. He was the girl.

He was the girl in this moment.

Leon blinked. And then he cupped the back of her head and drew her down to him.

She made a little sound and he kissed her. He drove his tongue into her mouth and stole her breath. She shifted to put her arms around him more and he craned his neck to thrill them both with the endless spill of it.

They came up for air, panting.

"…is that a yes?" Her voice was hoarse and wonderful.

And it made him laugh. He pulled her into him and laughed.

The front door of the mansion was kicked open. He heard the sound of boots and Sherry shifted. She shifted her body…and she covered his body with hers to protect him. She put him behind her, just a little, just enough to use herself like a shield.

While she aimed her pistol at the people that came into view.

Leon felt something shift hard and painful in his chest. The brave little thing. That dirty fucking bastard had stabbed her no less then thirty times out there. And she was still sitting there, crouched, on one knee protecting him.

He was fucking in love with her.

Which was a problem…because the dragon at the gates was standing there.

And Sherry shouted, "CLAIRE!"

And that was good. That was good. Claire thought…THAT was how her name was supposed to sound. THAT was how Claire was supposed to sound.

And it was supposed to be followed, always, by the hug that came behind it.

Claire held Sherry and stroked her hair. And Walsh, standing beside Piers, exclaimed, "Leon, what the FUCK happened to you!?"

There was no time to answer.

Because somewhere outside the mansion, someone was firing up some chainsaws.

He somehow doubted she was going to just smile and give her blessing over. Once they were free of this mess they were in, there was a pretty uncomfortable conversation that was going to be had between the three of them. Best friends or not, there was history here that was muddy.

History between a girl and a woman that was like her sister. History between that woman and the man who'd loved her once. And history between the girl and the man who'd found their way to each other through obsession.

It was messy.

But there wasn't time to dwell on it now.

Now was for STAYING ALIVE.

Leon put on his shirt, he slid on his holster and his jacket. He grabbed his Magnum and the sword from the floor. There was no time to do anything about the drama that would erupt. There was no time to do anything but fight.

He said, authoritatively, "Walsh, you go secure the rear of the mansion. Piers, upstairs, find a vantage point and take them out when you can. Go for the chainsaw fuckers. We have to try to thin the herd before they break in here. Or we're all dead. THE BSAA should have boots on the ground soon. Let's try to hold out until they get here."

He turned to Sherry and Claire. "Find a window, find some cover, and keep on shooting. If they break in, try to be somewhere where you can escape. Barricade what you can, stop who you can, and keep on fighting."

Sherry turned to run. Claire grabbed his face and kissed him, hard, hard…hard. And stole his breath. She said, "You're late. And you sent a baby to save me. But you came for me. You came for me. I won't forget."

She ran off to follow orders. Leon took a deep breath and turned. He braced, watching the door shake with the assault on the other side. It wouldn't be long before they were over run with the enemy. There was no time, not now, to think about anything but staying alive.

The fight began. It was bloody and swift.

The door caved in and the hoard followed.

He swung the katana and took heads and arms and legs. He fired the gun and blasted blood on the walls and brains on the floor. He ducked, he rolled, he came up to eviscerate. He fought and retreated when he was over run to another room.

He kicked over the table there to use as cover and started picking them off.

From the top of the stairs, he heard the fighting. He heard Claire and Sherry fighting. He heard Piers and Walsh fighting. Leon swung the sword again, again, again. He was thirty deep with them everywhere. He heard Sherry shouting for him.

One grabbed his face and pinned him to the wall. One grabbed his legs and another his arm. He struggled and they took him to the floor. He kicked. He hit. He punched.

One came down like they'd eat his face. He waited for it. Waited for it…waited to die…

And the cacophonous blast of gunfire filled the room.

It was murderous. It was loud and fast. It sounded like thunder and fireworks and death. Screaming, steaming, bodies dropping on him and weighing him down. Shouting, growling, grunting as the bodies were pulled off him.

Sherry was pulling him free. She pulled him up and pushed.

She pushed him behind her as she went hand to hand with a chainsaw man. He rushed in to help her. The katana came down…the chainsaw hacked loose in a spray of blood and bone. Sherry grabbed the weapon and it roared to life. She went to town making mince meat out of the enemy. Blood and bone, flesh and organs…she painted the room like a Jackson Pollock.

Leon drove the katana into the face of one that tried to eat her from behind. He ripped it clear in a burst of brains and severed the head of another. The katana caught on their spine and cost him. He was thrown back into the wall.

And his poor, poor, poor head. It took the hit. It took the hit so hard it stole his breath.

And everything went black.

* * *

It was wet inside the tank. Wet in the tank. Wet in the tank where he was floating.

His eyes popped open. He had a respirator in his mouth. He was in his boxers and floating in gelatinous goop. The goop was pink and warm yet somehow cool. He turned in the liquid, like Neo in the cocoon awakened outside the Matrix, and Sherry was there.

She hit a button. There was a WHOOSH and a sputter of sound as the goo drained. The respirator popped out of his mouth. A mechanical hiss sounded and he was sucked, literally sucked like a vaccum tube, down out of the tank where he'd been held. It got dark and cold and hot water blasted him. It was followed by a gust and gush of warm drying air.

Leon let out a gasp of shock and the lights came on.

He was sitting on a table in an empty room.

Around him were what looked like morgue drawers and steel. He was assuming they were other bays where people were being…kept? Something.

There was a hiss of sound and Sherry came in.

She was in some kind of tiny white…something. It was probably a hospital gown. But it looked more like a torture device meant to make men crave her. It was held together by loops and ties. It barely covered her breasts and ass.

She moved toward him. "You're awake! You're ok? You had a fractured skull, Leon. Fractured. By the time we got you here, you had a brain bleed and swelling. You stopped breathing. You stopped breathing and they put you in the restoration tank. Thank GOD for it. Thank god. Oh god…"

He was fine. He wasn't just fine…he was AMAZING. He felt like he'd slept for a hundred years. He wiggled his nose, his toes, his shoulders. He didn't have so much as a tight muscle.

She was still talking, "The BSAA is INCREDIBLE. They have things I would have never expected! I can't believe what they can do. That TANK. INCREDIBLE. Amazing. It saved your life!"

Sherry hesitated when she was close to him. She hesitated to touch him. He was so perfect. So beautiful. And she'd been so afraid she'd lose him. She'd held him while he bled all over her. It was terrifying. Claire had come running. Piers had come running.

She'd tried to carry him and her leg was broken. So, she'd fallen.

She couldn't lift him.

But she hadn't needed to. Because Chris Redfield had.

He'd swung his assault rifle to his back, dressed like GI Joe in fatigues and more armor plating then a knight, and picked up the other man like he'd weighed nothing. He'd carried him to the chopper and put him inside to be air lifted to the U.N. Headquarters for the BSAA. Sherry and Claire, both wounded, had gotten on as well. Piers had stayed with Walsh to finish the clean up.

Sherry whispered, softly, "I thought I was going to lose you."

She reached out to touch his hair and he caught her hand. They held eyes.

He said, "Claire is ok?"

Sherry nodded. "She's fine. She's ok. We both woke up in the tanks. She's with Chris now. She's ok. We're ok."

Leon nodded. She shifted and her could see the side of one of those perfect breasts of hers. The relief, the rush of adrenaline that came with survival and knowing they'd found her. They'd found his best friend. They'd found her…it rushed through him like fire.

Sherry said, "Do you want to go see her now?"

He slid off the table where he was sitting. She moved like she'd help him stand up. Her hand slid across his chest.

And he murmured, "...not yet."

He watched it shoot across her face, the want, the need, the risk. "Leon...not here."

"Here. Now. Sherry...don't fight me."

She shook her head, denying, but aching for it. "...it's a bad idea."

"I know that. I need you."

Jesus. She whispered, "Please..." And killed him. Her and that please. It owned him. He should stop. He should stop.

But he grabbed a handful of her hair, pinned her down on the table with a hand on her collarbone, and kept on going. He put her on her face on the table, hiking up her little gown to see the plush heart of her ass. He kicked her feet apart to touch her. His fingers sank into the moist core of her.

Sherry gasped, bucking against his fingers. "Oh! Leon, not here!"

"Here." He repeated, "Now."

His hands rolled her up. She almost pushed on his hip to stop him, "Someone could see us!"

"I know...stop fighting me, Sherry. Tell me you don't want me."

God. She couldn't. It would be a lie to say it.

He pushed against the wet of her and she slicked him, welcoming, gasping. She grabbed his ass in her hand to shove her toward him even as she tried to deny it. "I want you...I want you...but not here!"

Again, hissing it, "Here. Now." His hand grabbed into her hair to turn her upper body toward his mouth. He tongued her, fast and deep. She mewled, almost squealing, and sucked his tongue into her mouth.

And he shoved into her body so hard it audibly slapped into the room. She screamed into his mouth with it, jerking, bucking against him, into him, around him. Sherry took him like a glove even as she knew it was wrong. Bad. Wrong. Desperate. ANYONE could see them.

But he rolled himself inside of her...and she was done.

She let out a cry of desperate need as her sucking little body consumed his. The door whooshed with sound to open and she gasped, "Leon…stop…oh god!"

They were no longer alone. And neither of them cared.

She was there. He was there.

He flicked her clit, felt her cum all over him despite herself, fighting against it the whole time, afraid of being seen and caught and dying with the want of it…and it was enough. He grunted, grabbed her hips to slap her down on him so hard it rang in the room and she squealed…and he pumped her full of the heady, sticky, needy spurt of his release.

Her back bowed, her spine shifting as she milked his spurting body like a fist with her own greedy spasms, and he ground her against his body to take all of him.

And a voice in the doorway said, "Cheese and rice, Kennedy. This isn't a fucking no tell, motel. Put your cock back in your pants and get off her."

And there was Chris Redfield watching them and looking incredibly irritated.

It might have been funny. It might have been comic.

But he wasn't alone.

Because the dragon at the gates was standing behind him. And her face? It wasn't irritated. It wasn't even laughing.

It was pissed.

Sherry was REALLY shoving him now. She was really pushing at him. Leon, shivering, shuddering and still shaking from trying to blow his load out the back of the girl beneath him, slid out of her eager little body and poked himself back in his pants.

Sherry closed her legs and rolled off the table, thighs quivering.

Chris had his arms crossed on his chest. Claire? She came in the room like a red haired storm.

"I should KILL you!"

Naturally, he was the target.

She shoved his chest. He let her. She smacked his face. He let her. He couldn't blame her. He'd been caught, literally red handed, fucking Sherry Birkin. It was not his finest moment.

Sherry leaned on the wall, panting. And his sticky released dribbled down her thighs.

The man in him loved that. THAT was his finest moment.

Chris said, "Sherry – Simmons is here waiting. You probably want to clean up and hurry. He's royally pissed."

Whatever was happening between the idiot Kennedy and his sister, he wanted no part of it. He gestured with his head and Sherry hesitated. She said, "Claire? Claire, stop. It's ok. Claire, I wanted it."

Claire turned her head. And her face…oh her face. She looked so hurt.

Sherry wanted to hug her. But she was so mad. So mad.

Finally, Claire said, "Go, Sherry. Just go. Just go now."

Hurt, scared of what it meant, Sherry glanced between Claire and Leon. She didn't want to be the reason they hurt each other in this room. She didn't want to be the reason for any kind of pain like that.

But her aching body said if he'd asked…right then if he'd asked her to bend over the table and let him fuck her…she'd spread her legs for him and let him. And it was frightening. Because it meant he owned her. He owned her enough to strip away her soul and make her his fuck puppet. His play thing. His toy.

And she simultaneously hated herself and loved the greed for that kind of soulless possession that whispered like madness in her blood.

Sherry whispered, "Claire…I'm so sorry."

And she fled from the room. Chris let the door whooshed closed on the battle beginning there in her wake.

Claire turned back to him. He held her gaze, cool, so cool. Mr. Fucking Cool and Collected. The Ghost. Was he even really in this room?

She hissed, "What did you do?! What have you DONE, Leon?"

Wryly, he answered, "They call that fucking, Claire. You know what that was. We used to do it all the time."

And she slapped his face again.

He grabbed her wrist and held it. "That's enough of that. I took it because I get it. I get it. Sherry's your little sister in a way. You caught me plowing your sister. That sucks a lot. It's gotta. But you don't hit me. Not again."

He shoved her hand away.

Claire felt the roll of anger in her blood. The pound of it in her veins. It was more than betrayal here. It was pain. Because she'd protected Sherry. She'd let Wesker touch and use her. And what had they done?

They'd rolled naked together while she'd traded her soul for their safety.

Her best friend and her sister.

It felt like a punch in the face.

"She's a baby, Leon. A BABY. Did you consider that before you stuffed her full of your fucking cock?"

Leon shifted, calmly, "She came on to me. I didn't know who she was at first. But it didn't matter once I did. She's not a baby, Claire. She's a woman. And I'm not using her."

Claire laughed now, harshly. "You aren't? Jesus Christ, Leon, you're the fastest zipper in the West. You throw that huge dick to any girl that blinks at you. Does she know that? Does she know you're a fucking man whore? Is there a girl who survived Raccoon City that you HAVEN'T fucked!?"

Admittedly, it was a fair question. And she wasn't entirely wrong. He loved the ladies. It was true. He didn't shy away from a good deep dicking with one. He never had.

But there was no way for her to know the difference here. And no way for him to explain it.

"She knows all about me. Everything. I haven't lied to her or used her. She knows. Ask her yourself. It's not like that."

Claire searched inside of her for why she was so angry. What was the anger here? Was it jealousy?

Yes.

And no.

And yes again.

Of course she was jealous. They had a bond now that didn't include her. She was the odd man out. She'd lost them to each other somewhere along the way. It wasn't jealousy that he was fucking Sherry. Not exactly. He'd fucked anything in a skirt plenty as long as she'd known him.

Part of her liked hearing his dirty stories about it when they got beers together or hung out. She knew who he was. She liked who he was. He was an open book about girls. Always had been.

He didn't commit. He didn't linger. And he didn't stick around. He didn't shy away from a girl unless she pushed for more. And he didn't play games usually.

Usually.

Unless it mattered.

His face said Sherry mattered.

Claire asked, quietly now, "Do you love her?"

And he didn't lie either. Leon Kennedy never lied. He might dance around the truth until you thought the moon was made of green cheese and the sky and the sea were interchangeable…but he didn't lie. So he said, "I do. She humbles me. She snuck in and stole something. I can't get her out. She scares the holy fuck out of me with it. But I'm trapped with wanting her. I am sorry like hell I didn't tell you. But I didn't know you were missing. When we did, we did nothing but search for you. I swear to god neither of us was trying to make this a secret."

Claire stared at him for a long moment. Finally, she said, "What the fuck are you gonna do? If Simmons finds out, he'll have you killed."

And now Leon laughed. He laughed. And it was mirthless.

"I have no fucking clue. I'll bounce. It's what I do." He hesitated now. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Claire met his eyes. He felt it shiver between them. Whatever it was, it had been bad.

Finally, she said, "It was Albert Wesker, Leon. It was Wesker. And he's not done."

Leon nodded, holding her gaze, "I know. His perverted sidekick spilled the beans before Sherry lopped his ugly head off. What do you know?"

She gestured to the table…and her eyes filled with tears.

Leon felt the stirring of rage in his guts for Albert Wesker. Claire NEVER cried. Ever. She was the strongest woman he'd ever met.

For the tears alone, he was going to watch the son of a bitch BLEED.

And Claire whispered, "You better sit down for this."

For just that moment, they forgot to be mad at each other. They sat on the table and she told him. She told him all of it. And they were just two people that had been friends for a decade. He put his arm around her and she spilled all of it.

And Leon knew, in his bones, that the only way she'd ever find peace from it would be with Wesker dead.

And he began to plot revenge in a way he hadn't in a long time.

Revenge for Claire. Revenge for Sherry. Revenge for Jill, trapped in his web and suffering.

He was a mad good at revenge. It was his bread and butter. It was his motto. He didn't commit to women, not easily, not usually…but he committed to revenge.

It worked itself into his bones and ached there. Ached. Like Sherry had. Like his need for her.

Revenge.

It was one more obsession.


	16. Reanimation

**Stage Sixteen: Reanimation**

* * *

 **The Compound**

* * *

Sherry Birkin found herself being punished for running away. Ordinarily, through the course of her imprisonment, her punishments consisted of time spent in isolation. She was treated like an unruly prisoner in a maximum security penitentiary. She was given food and water by way of a single guard and left to herself in her bedroom…sometimes for days.

Simmons, her captor, wouldn't even visit with her during this time. He would leave her with Mr. Kennedy and she would spend three to four WONDERFUL days with her notebooks and her pens and her relative peace. Often times, she'd use her isolation to go down by the pond on the property, under the cover of her one guard equipped with anti- BOW rounds, and spend a lazy afternoon with her feet in the water.

At all times, while she drifted somewhere between dreams and hope, Leon Kennedy was with her. Her notebooks were full of his face. Her diaries full of her dreams of him. She would imagine him there beside her with his feet in the water. He was always laughing.

On the train, as they'd fled the city, he'd knelt down to talk to her. And he'd made her laugh. The first real laugh from a girl who'd been terrified for so long she couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything but cower and hunker and hide.

His face had been filthy, stained with ash and filth, brown in flaking patches with old blood and rot. He glistened beneath a fine sheen of sweat and smelled vaguely of gasoline and the acrid stench of burning flesh. His eyes had been so blue amongst all the filth, nearly gray in the rising dawn. His hair, that fine coppery strawberry blonde of a boy becoming a man, had been ragged and sticky. It had fallen in that iconic way of his in chunks of singed and crunchy hunks.

He'd said, "You doin ok, sweetheart?"

And she'd yearned a little, as young girls do, for the sweetheart in that voice. It was still smooth, still lacking that deepness that had come from aging and living, and made her feel warm and soft. She'd nodded, wide eyed, watching the way his mouth moved.

Leon had nodded and winked at her, patting her knee above her dirty knee socks and just below her filthy blue shorts. "It's ok now, Sherry. I know it's hard to imagine it…but I think it's ok now."

And Sherry had answered, in her tiny voice, "I was alone for so long. I was afraid for so long. How do I stop being afraid?"

There was no pity on his face. Even then, Leon Kennedy hadn't been the type of man to pity. He looked at her so evenly, so honestly. And he'd replied, "I think it'll always be there, sweetheart. I think you'll always be afraid. All you can do…all WE can do…is just hold on until the scenery changes. Maybe we don't stop being afraid. Maybe we just learn to take that fear and use it to make us stronger."

Sherry thought he might be the smartest person she'd ever met.

Some years later, she knew that to be almost true. His file said he was a genius. It said he was versatile and dedicated and strong. It said he had a penchant for foreign language and a unique ability to learn skills in a fraction of a second of the normal human response. He had a photographic memory and an unparalleled skill with hand to hand combat.

But on that day, on that train, he was so much more than that. Because she whispered, "I don't want to be alone anymore."

And he'd told her the first real truth of her new world. "You're not alone, Sherry. I'm with you now."

"You won't leave me?"

"Never. I'll always be with you. I promise."

They'd taken him from her. That part was true. They'd come off the train and Claire had left them to try to find her brother. They'd had one afternoon together where he'd given her ice cream and brushed her hair when it was clean to help her calm. He probably thought of her like a daughter or a sister…she'd thought of him as the only thing in her world that made it a little better.

He joked. He always joked. He'd made sweet jokes and silly jokes and off color jokes. The first joke he made that was rather inappropriate for a young girl had caused him to pause. He'd had a beer half way to his mouth and stopped. He'd glanced at her face in the little pub where they'd been eating and said, "….so that was all kinds of uncool huh?"

And she thought maybe he was the coolest person she'd ever met too.

The little town had a zoo and he'd taken her to it. They'd walked around and looked at animals and laughed. He'd sat on the bench with her while she just talked. She talked. She talked about growing up with parents that never loved her. She talked about their dedication and their eagerness to create something worth being remembered for.

And Leon Kennedy had put his arm around her and pulled her into his side. She'd melted, curled against him and breathing him in, and he said, "They already created something pretty special here, Sherry."

"The G-Virus?"

"No, silly goose…you."

Well shit, thought a twelve year old girl, and it was the moment she'd known she'd love him forever.

Her heart had pounded so hard, curled there against his side. She'd tucked her knees up against him and put her cheek on his chest. He'd rubbed her arm while she'd drifted off to sleep. It was the only time in her life she'd ever felt loved.

She'd come awake that afternoon to the men in the suits. She'd never forget any of it. The way he'd stood between her and them. The way he'd fought them…a rookie cop with no skills back then..he'd given it his best. They'd knocked him down eventually but he'd fought like a madman for her.

When they'd finally pulled them apart…she'd called his name as they dragged him away. He'd been in handcuffs like some kind of criminal…this boy that had saved her life. They kept jerking her arms to force her to move.

"Leon!"

And he'd looked over his shoulder at her…and winked at her. "Don't be afraid, Sherry. Ok? Remember…."

"….be stronger."

"Be stronger."

"Leon…I don't want to be alone!"

He'd struggled against the dragging hands. She'd jerked against the pulling arms. And he'd answered, "Not alone, Sherry. Not alone. Don't worry sweetheart, I'm comin for ya."

And they'd thrown him down the hallway.

She hadn't seen him again all those years.

She sat now on the edge of the pond, a grown woman, feeling the water on her bare toes. Now she had him, in a way, the man that filled her in places with hope and need and want. She had him. But she couldn't ever really have him.

Not while she was a prisoner in this place.

Her punishment this time wasn't isolation. Simmons hadn't thrown her off alone to punish her for sneaking away. He'd, instead, told her she would be spending her time in testing. And she had. She'd been poked and prodded and pushed.

He'd shot her full of something that made her itchy and gasping and pained. Her reaction hadn't pleased him, obviously, as he'd let her go shortly after while muttering. Whatever he'd wanted from her, he wasn't getting it. He'd sent her to train with her handlers.

They'd come at her like usual but they sensed, as she flipped and kicked, tossed and took them down…that something had changed. It had. She wasn't the little girl that needed them anymore. She'd escaped them, avoided them, and trained with Leon Kennedy. She didn't need anything they could teach her anymore.

They'd sent her off to be alone for the day by the pond.

Mr. Kennedy sat beside her on the embankment, panting and smiling…if dogs could smile. Sherry looped her arm around his neck. She laid her cheek on his shaggy head. And then he spoke to her in Claire's voice, "I'm pretty sure that handsome fella next to you is the best looking Kennedy."

Sherry smiled and glanced up at her as Claire settled onto the ground beside her. Sherry shifted her head and laid it on Claire's shoulder. Her long red hair tickled Sherry's face as a the breeze ruffled it.

"You're not mad at me?"

Claire glanced down at her and cuddled her arm around her. "How could I be? He pursued you, right? He's known for it."

Sherry considered and said, "No. It was me."

Surprised, Claire glanced at her face again. "You?"

"Oh, yeah. It's always been him for me. Since that first day twelve years ago. First, it was a crush right? A little girl looking for someone to idolize. Later? An obsession. I couldn't do anything but dream of him. I'd roll sweaty in my sweets hungering after him."

Claire rubbed her arm as they stared out over the pond.

"And now?"

Sherry sat up, shivering a little in the cool breeze. "Now I'm in love with him. Desperately. It's insane."

"Sherry…" Concerned, Claire looked over to hold her gaze. Two sets of blue eyes locked together, "Sherry…he's not for you. He's not who you think he is. He'll try to be good. He'll try to love you. He's made that way…to try. And he'll fail at it. Because Leon Kennedy is good at a lot of things. He's great at more than that. But he's BAD at love. His love? It doesn't last. He'll get bored, Sherry…and he'll hurt you without trying. He's not cruel. He's not mean. He's just…not the type that sticks around. I cut him loose before he could cut me loose all those years ago. That allowed us to stay friends. Because I knew, when it started, that he isn't a man you try to tie down. You love him, you fuck him stupid, you use him up and ride him until you can't walk…and then honey?"

She took Sherry's face and held it, determined to help her see it. "And then you let him go."

Sherry looked so cool. She looked so calm. "I won't use him up. He'll use me up. And I'll let him. And if he asks? I'll keep letting him. The only thing I won't do if he asks? I won't let him go."

Claire shook her head, trying to see reason on that young, innocent, determined face. "Sherry…Sherry…you can't keep him. He'll hurt you."

And now Sherry shivered a little. And her beautiful blue eyes glowed. "….I know. I want him to."

Claire held her gaze for a long, long moment. She finally rose from the ground. "We're working with Simmons to have you assist on this mission. If he says yes, you want to come with us?"

"Oh, yes. Please….Leon's here?"

"…he's here." Claire caught her chin and held her face. "Sherry, he's gonna use you up."

"….promise?" Her little voice. So soft. So excited.

Claire understood it. She did. Leon Kennedy was something you coveted. He was all blue eyes and shaggy hair and sexy little smiles. He fucked like a porn star and commanded like a general. He took and took and turned you over and used you while you screamed and bucked and fucked and fell apart for him. He just didn't stick around to clean up the mess he left behind.

No apologies, no regrets.

It's why you loved him. He was cocky and sexy and charming and suave. He was almost impossibly beautiful. He was deadly night shade – so utterly gorgeous, so covetous, so carefully constructed to make you want it, need it, yearn for it and touch it…and wither and die from it.

This girl was the perfect answer to him. She was soft. She was untested. She lived in the shadow of her horrific parents with their stigma slathered all over her like poison. She was a delicate bird in a gilded cage. She wanted so badly to be free. She wanted so badly to die from his touch. It thrilled her…the idea that she might die at his hands, enthralled in him, impaled on him. HIS. It was the answer to a question a desperate little thing like her had been asking for years. Who was she? If she allowed him to own her, empty her, and fill her…she would be Leon Kennedy's…and that was what she CRAVED.

Claire brushed her fingers over Sherry's cheek and still saw her as twelve years old. That was her failing here. It was her fault. She saw the little girl and not the woman. The woman? She knew what she wanted.

How did she protect her from Leon? Could she? Should she? Letting Sherry try and fail to keep him was something every woman needed to learn in their life. If what Excella Gionne had told them was true…a cure for her was waiting in Mauti-Kifo. Maybe the answer was there to what she'd need. Freed from Simmons, maybe she'd spread her little wings and fly away. Maybe she'd find her way from him and it would all end…if not happily…safely.

And maybe unicorns would be waiting there as well.

But she started talking. She told Sherry all of it. She talked about Jessica Sherawat. She talked about Ada Wong. She told her about Excella and the games and the dark. She told her about the missions, the pain.

Sherry held her look. She didn't look upset. The story had only made her love him more. Didn't Claire see? He'd gone in, side by side with a man bent on vengeance, and nearly died saving him. Maybe he wasn't perfect. But he would always be the boy in the uniform that went in, when there was no hope, and saved you. It was all he knew how to be.

If that meant he atoned for that self sacrifice by seeking to control his universe outside it? It was a small price to pay. She wasn't Jessica Sherawat…she didn't want to own him…she wanted him to OWN HER.

"Thank you, Claire. For loving me. For telling me. I know who he is. I've always known. If he wants me for now…or for a minute…or forever…it'll be enough. I'm only me when he's with me. He's on my walls, on my pages, on my heart. He's it for me. I can't change that because it's dangerous. I can't change it because he'll use me up. I hope he does. I can't think of a better way to die than loving him."

Undone, lost, and afraid for her, Claire stroked her soft hair. "Sherry….honey. Oh, honey."

There was nothing left for her to say here. What could she say?

Nothing to Sherry. Nothing. But Sherry wasn't the only one in it now.

Claire turned to head back toward the compound and the door buzzed. It slid up and he stepped out into the cool autumn air. His jacket was soft wine red hand woven wool. The collar was wide and high, black, with a lapel that hinted at a suit jacket and big black buttons that gave hints a of a pea coat. He wore a brilliant gray vest beneath in shades of good dove feathers and tie that was striped in red and black. The shirt beneath was crisp white and catchy. He paired it all with those deconstructed jeans he loved so much that made his ass look edible and black boots that were likely steel toed.

The wind tossed his hair with playful fingers. It was always so dark as the winter months drug on. The summer would often see it light and soft. As the fall edged toward winter, it was a rich shade of dark somewhere between blonde and brown.

Claire moved toward him across the grass. The cool breeze felt good on the face as they moved. She smoothed her hands over his vest, an old gesture between them. He lifted his hand, encased in those fingerless gloves that he was always wearing, and scooped her hair behind her ear…and this was another gesture as old as their friendship.

"You ok?"

Claire eyed his face, looking at the spill of that sexy little weeks worth of beard that he was sporting. She got it. She'd always get it. He rang bells when he breathed. Women just dropped panties and waited for him to fuck them. But Sherry wasn't just some girl. She wasn't. And it had to be said.

"If you hurt her, I will kill you."

They held eyes.

"I didn't come here to hurt her, Claire. I've been trying all these years to get her set free. You know that."

"And you know what I mean here, Leon. You know what I mean. That girl out there? I'm going to kill you if you hurt her. I hope you realize that while you're playing whatever game this is with her. This doesn't end with us friends if it goes badly."

And now he lowered his hand from her cheek. "You choosing her over me?"

"…do I have to?"

He took a step back from her. It hurt her. But it had to be said.

"I hope not."

"Me too. For all of us."

Nodding, he passed by her, and he said, "Simmons agreed."

Finding out about the potential cure in Mauti-Kifo had been all the information needed to influence the President to put pressure on Simmons and allow the meeting. Apparently, Leon could charm even that old stick up his ass because Simmons had agreed to let them take Sherry with them. It was unheard of.

"Really?"

"Yes. We'll leave in the morning."

She watched him walk away from her. And she hated the distance here. But Sherry couldn't protect herself. She was too soft, too open, too HIS. Someone had to protect her.

He crossed the ground toward her and Mr. Kennedy woofed at him.

Sherry turned her head, saw him, and felt something in her click back in place.

She rose, turning slowly. "I tried to get him to let me stay. To let me say goodbye. He wouldn't let me. I wasn't sure…that you'd come back after what happened."

He said nothing, walking toward her.

She wondered if there'd ever be a moment her heart didn't pound like a wild thing in her chest when she saw him. What a life she'd have, chasing and feeling him in her bones like she did. If someone cut her…would she bleed Leon Kennedy?

Sherry spoke again, so softly, "I don't…know how to get you out of me now. I think I'm obsessed with you…I didn't think you'd come back…"

Leon shook his head. His face, she thought wildly, was he always so controlled? Where was the laughing boy who'd shared ice cream with her? Were they even those people anymore?

She said, and he was so close now, maybe eight feet away, "But then I remembered…I REMEMBERED…that you're always with me…even when you're gone…I think maybe I'm pathetic…because I can't do anything but miss you…and I just tried to be….stronger."

And he was there now. He was right there. She opened her arms and in him came. He caught her against his front and picked her up off her feet against him. She made a sound and opened her mouth. Her hands speared into his hair and his tongue filled her mouth.

She didn't realize she was crying a little. She was crying in his arms. Why? Because he was some part of her that she couldn't understand. Because she'd loved him for half her life and felt him in her even when he was gone. Because she wanted him to open her up and bleed her dry and fill her full of him until she couldn't tell where he ended and she began.

The pond was scenic behind him. The weather was so cool. He smelled like something smoky and sexy and rich. She popped her mouth free and jerked at his hair to hold his face still.

And she licked his mouth.

His lips curved up at the corner; that little half smile that ruled her soul.

Sherry said it again, softly, "I missed you."

And he finally spoke, "Show me."

She slid effortlessly to her knees. Her hands jerked, unzipped, and molested him. She molested him like some kind of desperate pervert. She licked over his hip bone and across the smooth plain of his belly beneath the shirt she lifted. She swirled her tongue in his belly button and drew a laugh from him that was edged with want.

Her hands pulled him free and her mouth amorously licked, lovingly, at his soft and exquisite head. He was still only semi-erect which thrilled her. And it allowed her to open her mouth and take him in as far as she could in a single, breathtaking dive.

He went rock hard from it, gasping with delight. And her throat closed around him as he grew, throbbing in the slickness of that waiting cave. She gagged, thrilling him, but she didn't let go. She sucked, unskilled and eager, sucking and rolling her head and gagging at how far she forced him down her throat.

Jesus, he thought with a reckless greed, she was starving for it. She didn't stop and she didn't quit. He watched her pink mouth feast, furious and dying. She drove him into her. Her hands caught his hand looped them in her hair.

A shiver rode down his spine. He knew what she wanted. So he commanded her, gruffly, "Don't fight me."

And his hands twisted in her hair like handlebars. She made a moan of pain that thrummed around his dick and stole his breath. Her hands settled on his thighs and braced. She readied herself, shivering in his grip.

Jesus Christ…he was mad for her.

He drove her down on his body mercilessly. She made a sound of shock and hunger and drove her nails into his thighs. With a grunt of greed, he ground himself in her mouth, felt her body resist him, and pulled her back to give her relief. They both shuddered with it.

And he gave her more.

He almost pulled her off and shoved her back on. She gagged and he pulled her back, let her breathe, and thrust into her again. Her gripping nails finally relented as he found the rhythm that robbed her breath, forced her to the edge, and then pulled her back. She slid her hands up now under his shirt, under his vest, and raked those nails over his nipples.

He popped her off his wet, slick, sticky cock and pulled her up off the ground by her hair to feed her his tongue. She took it, sucking, jerking against his chest and bringing his desperate moan into her. Dying, he dropped her back to the ground and she dove at him.

That mouth, he thought as she waited, and he shoved all of him into her. That mouth. It brushed his groin, all in, and he shuddered….and held her there. She gasped, impaled, shaking…shaking and too full. She gagged, she pushed…just a little…against his hips as if to unseat him from her. Those tears on her face, her mouth so ruthlessly owned by him….it made him nearly spill into her eager little throat. And he jerked himself out of her aching mouth.

Sherry made a sound and collapsed into the leaves as he released her. She slumped, breathing short, choppy, and raspy. Her throat throbbed, telling her of its abuse. She craved it. Each sharp pain, each terrible little ache. She DIED for it.

He jerked her to her feet and spun her around. She made a sound of surprise and grabbed the tree in front of her. His hands unbound her belt, they jerked her zipper, they pushed her jeans down her body until they pooled at her feet, trapped by her boots.

The cool air on her bottom thrilled her. She whispered, "Oh god…"

And his hand came down. It spanked her soft skin and echoed. It echoed in the quiet fall air. She'd resisted. She'd resisted. She'd CRAVED this. He stroked her, he spanked her, he petted her, he punished her. He shoved her little panties to the side and hooked his thumb into her heat.

She was slick, wet, swollen. It settled in his groin and brought his hand down against her again. She moaned, her cheeks pink and pretty. She was poison. She was infecting him with the want of her. She gasped his name, she offered herself to him, she looked over her shoulder. He unhooked his thumb from her and almost tickled her creamy slit with his finger.

"Please…"

That please.

He spread her little cheeks in his hands. He traced his thumb from her swollen lips and over the tight little hole of her, smearing her juices over her crack and that eager little entrance. Sherry mewled, needy, "Not like that, ok?"

And he laughed. "Not like what?"

"Not there."

Jesus. It made him want to fill her there. Not there, she begged. God.

He didn't invade that little virgin hole of hers. Not yet. He shifted and gripped her pink, pulsing, little cheeks instead to angle her up. "Don't come, Sherry. And don't beg."

He slapped his aching shaft against her needy little cunt. He just…slapped it once with his throbbing dick. She mewled. But she didn't beg. She was a GOOD girl.

And he rewarded her. He thrust into her swollen heat hilt deep. He hit the end of her, felt the spongy press of her cervix, and ground himself there while she cried out. She went so wet around him it was insane. He didn't relent, he rode out and hammered back in. They slapped together, rough, loud. Her gripping hands on the tree shifted and she fucked back against him, forcing him into her body fast, hard, thick and raw.

The angle put him at her cervix in a crushing way. It stole her breath. It hurt. It throbbed. It milked. She screamed once, thighs quaking, world shaking. She gasped, gasped, "I can't! I can't! Please!"

She could. They both knew it.

But he rasped, laughing a little, "Can't what? You can't what?"

"I can't take anymore. I'll come!"

"Not yet…not yet."

"Oh...please…"

That please.

"More?"

She gasped, bowing, nodding.

And he slid his thumb down and hooked it into her little eager hole to show her. Sherry squealed, she made a sound of want that ruled him, and she was so slick she could do nothing but feel him smash into her body and destroy her.

But she didn't come. She didn't come. And his balls slapped against her eager little ass while he thumbed her, while he fucked her, and while he owned her. He gripped her hair in his free hand and stopped thrusting. He let her hump back against him, finding her rhythm. He drew her face to the side and kissed her, curled over her back while she moved.

She was so hot, so desperate. He freed her hair, released her mouth, and slid his hand around her hip while she fucked him. He thumbed her ass, let her impale herself on his dick, and dipped his fingers over her needy little clit. Sherry bowed, crying out, almost spastically jerking in his arms.

"Please!" She cried it out, so loud. So loud. Could they hear it in that compound where Simmons held her captive? Could they? Did they understand what was happening here? Did they understand she was no longer Simmons…but his? She was his now. Always.

He unhooked his diving thumb from her body and brought his palm against her ass, spanking, sharp, hard. She screamed. He mercilessly worked her clit, so creamy, so slick. And she slapped back once more, so hard it nearly threw him off her. She ground him inside her at the core of her body. And he put his mouth to her little ear.

"….harder."

She smashed back against him so hard he had to hold on to her to keep upright. She stole his breath, sucked him into her riding body and raped a cry from his mouth that delighted her. He saw it on her desperate face. She CRAVED his noises. She EARNED them.

He made a sound, she felt him go so hard inside her sucking body that it felt like steel thrusting between her legs. She knew he was close. She cried out, "No! NOT YET!"

And it nearly killed him.

He gasped, hands lodged on her driving hips like she was a bronco trying to buck him clean, and Leon finally curled against her back and dropped his mouth to her ear. She turned her face to him, rasping, hoarsely breathing, panting. He claimed her mouth and whispered into it, "….go."

She went.

Almost instantly.

She spasmed and came, so wet, sucking him into her while she ground there. He slid his hand up under her jacket and shirt to cup her bare breast and roll it in his palm. He wanted to feel her racing heart. RACING. Sherry was still going, still dying, and she begged again, "Please."

That please.

He cupped her around the waist and threw her to the ground. She went, gasping, and he mounted her body with her feet trapped by the boots. She eagerly arched, opened, and he filled her up. He caught her hands and threw them over her head. She linked their fingers. She craned her neck, he took her mouth, and he fired into her.

That please.

She gasped, "I love you. Now! Now!"

And he was done.

He came inside of her, pumping, pulsing. He filled her full of his greed like a man possessed. And she made a little sound of something that stole his soul.

He collapsed atop her, breathing so hoarsely it almost wheezed out of him. Her hands came up to cup his face where it buried against her neck. She stared up at the cloudy sky and wondered if she was dead from wanting him. She turned her face, he rolled his and they spilled tongues and lips together. Smooth and wet and slow, they coupled mouths like their bodies.

After a long moment, he shifted. She opened her eyes to find him righting her clothes. He zipped her up and offered his hands. She took them, rising.

It might have been ok. She would probably have just shivered and longed for him like she'd always done…but he didn't turn his back on her and walk away. He turned into her and she opened her arms to pull him close.

She shifted, his hands curled down the back of her thighs, and he lifted her. She looped her legs around his waist and one arm slid around his shoulders. The other curled up the back of his head and into his hair. He tucked his around her like an octopus. And he buried his face into the bend of her neck and shoulder…breathing her in. He stood there, near the pond where she'd pictured him so many times over the years, and held her in the cool fall air.

He hugged like he did all things: all in.

It was his body that drew her: that face, those eyes, that smile. It was his humor that killed her: the puns, the jokes, the soft and nearly sweet sense of wanting to make you laugh. It was his fucking that thrilled her: the way he ruled, the way he schooled, the way he tortured and tempted and abolished. But it was his hugging that kept her. It was his hugging. Because his hugging was like stripping away his armor to find the boy beneath the hardened warrior. There were no games here, when he hugged you, just something a little lost and a little lonely and a little…mine, Sherry thought, a little mine.

And just when she thought, maybe, she'd be safe from the final moment of knowing she was lost…he whispered, "I missed you too, Sherry...what have you done to me?"

And there was no more hope for her do anything but love him.

She was obsessed with him.

So she answered; a whisper of sound, "I'm making you mine, Leon Kennedy. Don't you know that?"

Against her skin, he replied, "….show me."

And she knew she'd probably spend the rest of her life doing just that.


	17. Villification

**Stage Seventeen: Vilification**

* * *

 **The Compound**

* * *

He wondered if her room would ever fail to make him feel a little like he might suffocate at the same time he felt unworthy. He was everywhere. He was in everything. This wasn't just a little girl that had been lonely – she worshipped him. He felt a little roll of fear in his belly that he might fail her. He was a man who rarely failed and yet…

Yet…he couldn't free her. He couldn't free himself. They were both, bound, trapped, prisoners to different masters that waited to be served. Simmons, the bastard, wouldn't release her. That conversation had gone as well as could be expected.

They stood in the office done in ridiculous amounts of red and black. It was like being inside a box made of blood and burnt souls. Leon's jacket had matched, which had somehow irritated him. He didn't want to match anything in Simmons office.

Simmons himself was wearing red and black. It was ridiculous. The whole room felt like a vampire might burst through the wall and bare its fangs.

He was rolling a little cube in his palm. Occasionally, he'd stop…and sniff it.

Leon, arms crossed, watched him. "Tell me what you want here, Simmons."

"For what?"

"For her freedom."

Simmons studied him. That ferrety face with its sallow skin. Simmons and his beady eyes rimmed in big bags and circles like bullseyes of exhaustion. The van dyke style beard he wore made his long jaw appear canine, as if he had a muzzle instead of a face. It made sense, his methods of protection were often hailed as brutal and ripping. He went for the throat, as wolves were known to do.

"You think you have something you an offer me?"

Leon lifted a brow in answer. "Don't I? There's always something we want, Simmons. Always something more. She's got nothing you need anymore. You've been poking her for years. Let her go. And tell me what you want."

"…if I release her, Albert Wesker will take her."

Leon smirked a little. "Didn't you hear? He doesn't need her anymore either. And now? I think there's been a vaccine developed for her. Tricell found the answer. If it's true, in Mauti-Kifo, I can CURE her. And he won't need her anymore. She deserves to live her life, Simmons. Set her free."

Simmons was looking so shrewd. "I am fond of her. Very fond. She's like a daughter to me."

The bastard. Leon held his gaze. "Cut the shit, Simmons. What do you want?"

"I want Ada Wong. Find her for me. Get her to me. I will release Sherry if you find the cure. I will do that…for Ada."

An interesting request. And it surprised the hell out of him. Leon lifted his brows and studied the room. The red..the red…it made sense now. It was Sherry's room, in a way, Simmons room was COVERED in Ada Wong.

Leon lifted a brow. They considered each other in the awful red light that shown from the cracked door behind Simmons' desk. Was it a shrine to Wong in there? Would you open the door and find her face plastered on the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling? Did he have her panties and her blood and her fingernail clippings in there?

What was the difference between that kind of obsession….and what Sherry felt for him?

It was sobering to think of it.

Leon finally nodded, "I'll find Ada. When we get back from Mauti-Kifo, you'll set Sherry free."

"Cure her, I'll set her free. If not, she stays with me until she can be safe. She's a commodity, Kennedy. A valuable one. I won't risk her because you want to play hero."

Nodding, Leon turned and left the office.

It was his second successful negotiation in as many days.

The first had gone…not so smoothly.

Sherry emerged from the bathroom toweling her hands dry. She eyed him where he stood, staring at the photo of the three of them together after Raccoon City. She moved up behind him and slipped her hands around his waist, setting her chin on his shoulder…and she was aware that he tensed at first before he relaxed.

Curious, she moved a little tighter against his back. He tensed harder. Sherry stiffened a little and moved around him between him and the wall. She grabbed his face in her hands.

"….what did you do?"

He kept looking at the picture. "Nothing, Sherry. Are you ready for dinner?"

"Fuck dinner."

Her little voice at the word. He smiled a little at her using it. "I don't know that the waiters would like that very much. It would have to be a HELLUVA steak for me to do that."

Sherry shook her head, refusing to be amused. She asked again, "What did you do?"

"I don't know what answer you want here."

She shook her head again. Her fingers caught the lapels of his coat and pushed. It tumbled down his arms to the floor and she WATCHED him wince when it brushed over his back.

"….goddamnit, Leon." Her voice quavered, "How did you negotiate with Excella for information?"

"Let it go, Sherry. It doesn't matter."

Sherry felt her heart throb a little. "Take off the vest and your shirt. Now."

Oh.

His face.

It was haughty and arrogant and angry now. "Don't give me orders, Sherry."

"Don't start that. Not now. Let me see what you did."

"I didn't DO anything."

"What did you let HER do, Leon? What? Damnit, what? Let me SEE."

He shook his head and turned away. Sherry felt her hands shake and she made them in fists. The idiot. The brave fool. What had he done? What price had he paid? How long had he been paying it to try to keep her safe?

She grabbed his arm and spun him back, surprising him.

"Don't, Sherry. It doesn't matter now. It's done."

"Doesn't matter?" The question was almost sing song from her voice. It was shaky and raw. She grabbed the buttons on his vest and poked them through. She shoved it off him and watched him wince again.

Furious now, Sherry thought she might hit him. "Doesn't matter, he says. Did you fuck her, Leon? Did you let her mark you? You son of a bitch."

He grabbed her arms now and pushed her away. It was rough. It shocked her.

He shook her and her teeth snapped together.

"You little…."His face. It was all rage. "No. I said I wouldn't. Didn't I? I didn't touch her."

"…then…" She was whispering now, "Then what did she want?"

They held eyes for a long, long, long moment. Finally, he unbuttoned his shirt and unhooked his tie. The tie he whipped off and threw it on the floor like he'd hurt it. Sherry jumped, watching him.

His fingers deftly slipped buttons and he stood there now, bare chested beneath the beautiful white shirt. His voice was rough and angry, "Go ahead. Push it off me."

Sherry shifted and did his bidding. She slipped her hands under the shirt on his perfectly muscled shoulders and pushed. It whispered, like good silk often did, and tumbled musically to the floor.

The sight of him never failed to thrill her. She trembled, fingers sliding over his chest to touch his nipples. They peaked for her and she almost forgot what she was doing here. Her eyes lifted. "I don't understand."

He studied her as those hands skimmed each muscle in his abdomen. And he finally grabbed her wrists and jerked her forward, stealing her breath. "You wanted to see. You wanted to know. Stand there and see it."

He shoved her back and turned.

His back.

Sherry made a sound of horror.

His back was covered in a large bandage. It was soaked through in places with blood. Sherry covered her mouth with one hand and made a little sob of pain. She shook her head. She whispered, "What did you DO, Leon? What did you do?"

His voice, so calm, so cold, "What needed done. Go on, take it off."

She moved forward and caught the edge of the bandage. Sherry peeled it back with a ripping sound, making a little noise of regret. She closed her eyes as it peeled away, taking little pieces of scabbing flesh with it.

It was horrid.

It was horrible.

It was crisscrossing and seeping and weeping. It was raw and ripped and ugly. They curled over his sides and his hips. They were thick and wide and welting in places. How much pain could one person take? The answer stood before her.

The tears poked into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She covered her mouth with one hand and the other, so softly, touched one wet red line that waited there. "Oh my god…oh my god…why?!" The whisper…so soft. So terribly soft.

"The cure, Sherry. The cure. You can finally be free."

And he stole her heart with a single phrase.

"…tell me what she did to you."

"I gave her my power. Excella doesn't fuck like a normal woman, Sherry. She needs to hurt you to feel anything. So I let her...hurt me."

Sherry kept her eyes on his ruined back. Ruined. Because it was. He'd never heal it all. Not without scarring. She'd gotten her pound of flesh. He was marred. The perfection of his back was a wasteland of blood and torture.

Sherry shifted to her little desk and started digging in it. "Take off your pants and boots."

He wasn't sure he liked the commanding tone with her. It rankled.

He said, "I'm FINE. Leave it alone."

She came back with a little bottle of salve and a small soft rag. "Please. Let me help. Please, Leon."

That please.

He shifted and his back protested. So Sherry unlaced his boots and helped him slip off his pants. It was worse there. She'd curled that whip over his beautiful ass and left it weeping with blood. Sherry kept her face controlled. She gestured and he lay on the bed on his belly.

She shed her jacket and climbed onto his legs, gently, to straddle his lower thighs. He didn't make a sound as she started gently touching him with the salve. It was cool and calming to his inflamed skin.

His cheek was pillowed on his folded his arms, looking across the room at a drawing of himself. Young, he thought, and smiling. Blonde and excited and laughing. He was always laughing in her pictures. He wished it was that simple.

She said, "Does part of you..like being…umm….what's the word?"

"Topped?"

He glanced at her a little and hissed. She eased him back to be still. "Yeah. Topped."

He considered it, liking her butterfly touches on his burning skin. "No. I'm not made to just…submit. I tried, in the beginning, because she liked it and it got her talking. I needed her talking. They sent me because they knew she had a weakness for pretty boys. Or pretty girls for that matter. Excella was never picky about sex. One was as good as the other. Jessica admitted to sleeping with her from time to time. Excella likes power. She takes it when she can't earn it. She'll do vanilla if the mood suits her. But it's just a lure to get you in. Once you're in, she'll get you to submit. The stronger the person, the more she loves it."

Sherry skimmed the salve over his left cheek and watched goosebumps pop on him. "Is that what you do? Do you…take power?"

He shifted a little, considering. "Sometimes. I try to make it consensual. I want you to submit. I want us both to want that. Claire tried…she really tried. But she was too much of her own dominant personality. She can't submit. Not completely. We both felt it. We both knew it wouldn't work for long."

"She loves you."

Leon blinked, sighing a little. "Probably. But not the way you mean."

"Exactly the way I mean. She told me. She ended it because you weren't happy. Why weren't you happy with her? She loves you."

He was quiet for so long she didn't think he'd answer. And he finally said, "I couldn't control her."

And now Sherry nodded a little. She nodded. "Thank you for telling me the truth. I knew that was the answer, Leon. Thank you for admitting it."

"I'm not proud of it, Sherry. I love Claire. She's one of the only things in my life that I care about. I couldn't love her how she needed. She couldn't give me what I needed. I'm…fucked up or something. I'm not proud of it."

Sherry skimmed her fingers over his spine and watched the goosebumps follow her. "Sometimes we want things that we aren't proud of. I chased you for ten years. I'm not proud of that. I let them keep me here all these years. I'm not proud of that either. I…let you hurt me."

He went so still under her fingers.

She whispered, "And I like it. I LIKE it. And I'm not proud of that either."

Leon tilted his head, watching her now. "Nothing to be ashamed of there, Sherry. Nothing. It's not wrong to like something that makes us both feel good. It's not. It's not conventional, it's not the standard…it doesn't make it wrong."

She held his eyes. "I shouldn't like for you to hurt me."

He glanced at her mouth, breathing softly. "You want me to stop?"

Her fingers skimmed over his hip. They slid around and tucked under him. He lifted enough to let her. And her hand find him thick, hard, and ready.

Jesus.

She whispered, "No.I don't want you to stop. And I'm not proud of that either."

* * *

Claire curled on her side, watching the coming fall beyond her window.

Shame. It was everywhere she looked. It was everywhere. Because she couldn't stop picturing the greatest monster she'd ever known. She couldn't stop. Every time she closed her eyes, his face haunted her.

It was between her legs. It was between her breasts. It was between her skin and her soul.

She was obsessed with her enemy. She didn't know how to get him out of her. He was a stain on her fucking bones. He wouldn't stop plaguing her. What was worse? She knew, he knew, wherever he was, that she had given him her power.

In that last moment together? She'd given him...herself.

* * *

 **Somewhere dark before the rescue...**

* * *

He was on the phone again.

She sat in the chair, shaking.

She sat there, shaking for him.

He hung up, brows lifted.

"I don't need you anymore, _Claire._ I have no more need of Sherry Birkin."

He rose. She shook her head.

He came around the desk to her. "You are free. Go back to your brother. Tell him how you spread your thighs for me. How you begged. How you took me into you and screamed for more."

Claire shook her head. She shook it again: no.

"Get up, _Claire._ We are done here."

Her hands shifted. She grabbed him. She pushed him onto the desk. He grunted and shifted.

Claire grabbed the letter opener from his desk and put it to his eye. He blinked, amused. So amused.

"Try it. Do it. Show me what Redfield's do when they are beaten. Kill me. Prove your mettle."

The stupid dresses he made her wear. He knew she hated them. He knew she hated him. He dressed her like a doll. All pretty hair and shimmery gowns.

Bastard.

Like a storybook.

A fairytale.

The Prince…and the Unwilling Slave. God...she _**DESPISED**_ him _ **.**_

She pressed the letter opener to his cheek. She spilled his blood. He laughed. He laughed and let her.

She hated him.

Her left hand jerked on his zipper. Her right kept the letter opener to his eye.

She jerked him into her fist. He grunted. He groaned.

She jerked up her skirt and pushed him back on the desk.

She took him into her with that letter opener to his eye. He gasped, he grunted, groaned…he let her move, slap down on him, steal his breath. She raped him – watching his face like she'd burn it into her brain forever.

She shook atop him. Riding. Riding. Wet and sticky. Blood on his face from the letter opener. Her blood in her veins burning.

She mewled. She bounced. She gasped, "Give me what I seek…and I will let you go."

And he laughed, laughed, grabbed her hips and ground her on him. She rode, throwing away the letter opener. He leaned up, spilling her into his lap. He lifted and lowered her onto his throbbing need.

She grunted, sucking him in, bowing and humping. She grabbed his hair in her fists and fucked his mouth with her tongue. She hated him.

She hated him.

His hand slid around her. His fingers slipping over her slippery body atop him. He smeared his fingers over her ass. He lowered her atop his thrusting body in a manic pace.

He hooked a finger into her needy little ass.

She bucked, screaming, and spilled wet and hot all over him. All over them. She grabbed his face and slapped him so hard.

He came in her, grunting. It was so hot. It scalded.

He pumped her full of him, laughing.

* * *

 **The Compound**

* * *

Her heart shivered, scaring her. How did she purge him from her? How did she get him out? She wasn't Sherry. She wasn't this girl. SHe didn't crave the dark. She didn't want to be owned. She didn't bleed inside for evil.

She wasn't full of madness.

She was full of **_him_** and she hated him.

She couldn't even breathe without feeling him. How did you blot out the darkness in your fucking soul?

The small knock on her door had her rising, clutching the robe around her body like a shield. She opened it a crack to peer out. And the pretty face of the hero boy who'd come for her lingered there, looking nervous.

"...I wanted to see if you were ok. You've just..hid out here. I thought maybe..." He held up a six pack of beers, "Maybe you needed a friend."

She felt something shiver in her. A friend? No. She didn't need a friend. She needed a fuck. She needed to fuck the monster out of her body, like an exorcism made of sweat and forgetting.

She opened the door and gripped his shirt in her fist. She tugged him forward, "I need you to help me. I need you. Say yes."

Piers nearly swallowed his tongue, twice, but he whispered, "...yes."

And Claire jerked him into the room with her.

They didn't even make it to the bed. She pushed him to the desk and and climbed onto his lap. She pulled him free of his pants like a mad woman. A desperate thing without any hope.

He was so eager. Sweet. Kissing and stroking her. But she wanted it fast. Rough. She straddled him and took him, riding his body in a thunderous burst of greed.

He gasped, he grabbed her hips to guide her. He was so giving. He wanted to please her. He didn't make her please him. He murmured her name and it sounded so gentle.

He was awed to touch her.

He didn't make her seethe with hate.

She fell asleep beside him, trembling. Because part of her craved that softness he offered...and part of her yearned for the pain she'd left behind.


	18. Regurgitation

**Stage Eighteen: Regurgitation**

* * *

 **Mauti-Kifo – African Tricell Division Camp – Aid Station**

* * *

There was nothing worth saving in the blistering heat. It bred and burned like fire made flesh. It left your body boiling, your brain baking, your eyes aching. The heat was a living, breathing, cloying thing. The sand stretched wide and white in dunes and hills and spilled across the savannah beneath the acacia trees and the drying grasses turned yellow and brown with drought.

Where the desert ended and met the brittle grass, the tiny village of Mauti-Kifo existed. It was little more than thatched rooves and roads turned rough and shot through with runnels beneath the once well-traveled wheels of the convoys that had come to seek aid at the camp. The camp was abandoned. It was empty. Whatever and whoever had occupied it once had long since fled.

There was evidence of inhabitance in the roughed in tents and burlap that offered the seeker shelter from the elements and the sandstorms that plagued the region. Tables were tossed and supplies raided by various evacuees that had fled and taken what they could with them. A few bodies littered the ground, some buried in the dying grass, some covered in sand kicked up by the wind.

They'd died tragically and eroded by elements enough that it was hard to tell if it had been by disease or by destruction. The number of dead suggested widespread contamination. The question was what agent was being used to decimate the area? Was it a known or an unknown virus?

The answers weren't forthcoming. They'd have to dig to find them.

They were dressed in desert survival gear. Each wore varying shades of camouflage and tan, buckskin boots and shemaghs to cover faces and protect from the sandstorms. Claire wore desert camo fatigues and a tank top in sandy brown paired with a moisture-wicking jacket stone gray. The shemagh wrapped around her face was olive drab and beneath the ballcap that protected her face. Her red hair was tucked into a ponytail out the back of the cap.

Sherry wore skinny buckskin pants tucked into thigh high boots. She wore a white heavy men's dress shirt belted at her narrow waist beneath a poncho in good tan. The hood was tossed over her hair that was tightly braided to the back of her scalp. The shemagh she wore showed little more than her blue eyes beneath the dark hood.

Leon was in dirt brown and black. His dark fatigues paired with an olive drab combat vest above a slick brown shirt. The faded leather duster he wore flapped around his knees as he moved and left his carefully covered face hidden in the mystery of the hood. His arms were wrapped carefully from wrists to elbows and finished with tactical gloves that left his fingers free to pull the trigger. His legs were strapped with thigh holsters on either leg and a combat knife was tucked into the front of his vest.

Claire wore her weapon in a shoulder holster and her thigh on her calve. Sherry had a sawed-off shotgun looped over her back. They were quiet as they dug amongst what little information was left in the raided camp.

They'd been searching for hours. The remains of the camp was a hollowed out shell. It was a carcass, picked clean by the carrion feeders that had come before. The vultures had come and taken anything of value. Likely the former dregs of Umbrella had beaten them to the punch and found anything worth stealing.

Leon was just about to pull the plug on the whole thing when Sherry gave a shout from three tents over. He and Claire converged on her at the same time.

She was waving a small faded journal at them. She jerked her shemagh down her face and said, "Listen…listen to this…"

It was a passenger manifest. It listed the names of a convoy that had come to the camp seeking aid. There were lots of names of no consequence on it. Some were vaguely familiar. Nothing rang any bells except one.

 _ **Male**_

 _ **Age: Unknown**_

 _ **Height and Weight: Unknown**_

 _ **Civilian seeking aid. Entered camp at 0200 requesting immediate assistance for female companion. Companion female mortally wounded. Stabbed sixteen times in the upper chest and stomach. Female companion expired despite efforts at 0432. Civilian male became enraged. Several soldiers required to restrain. Civilian male was taken to solitary for confinement. Expired female was identified as…**_

Claire made a small sound, "Jill!"

Sherry was nodding, sharp and fast. "Jill. Jill was here. Jill was here with an unknown man."

Claire glanced at Leon and shook her head again. "Not unknown. Wesker."

Leon took the manifest to keep reading. The body of the expired Jill Valentine was not found upon arrival of the evacuation team to take it away. It was missing. And so was the man who'd been carefully under guard in the solitary tent. Speculation was that he'd bribed his guards to release him and taken her body.

Claire said, quietly, "She's not dead. She's alive. I saw her in the Black Forest…she's not Jill anymore. But she's not dead."

Sherry queried, "They were here…but where did he take her?"

A sound from outside the tent drew their attention. Claire gestured with her head and Leon moved out into the boiling heat. It took about three seconds to realize that they weren't alone anymore.

A heavily cloaked figure was crossing the dying grass with a silver case in one hand. They'd ducked out of the final tent in the camp and were headed up the rise. What were the odds that Sherry's vaccine was in that case?

Leon gave chase, despite the shout of denial from Claire behind him.

He reached the top of the sand dune and shouted at the retreating figure.

A sound in the camp below signaled trouble for Claire and Sherry. He heard guns firing but he didn't turn back. He braced, drawing both guns from his thighs to aim them at the figure that turned back.

The hood of the cloak ruffled in the wind, giving glimpses of blue eyes and blonde hair.

Leon called, "Whatever you've got, drop it. It's not worth dying over."

The figure tilted their head and answered him. The voice was…odd. Was it almost mechanical? It sounded wrong. Empty. And familiar. "Isn't it? You came all this way for it. Will you take it from me?"

The answer to what was in the case was clear now. He wasn't leaving without it.

"Happily. Set it down and go. This is your only warning."

The figure laughed and little and tossed their head. The hood fell back, and he was staring into the face of Jill Valentine. The hair was pale like an albino and the skin pasty white, but it was her. She was outfitted for combat under the heavy cloak she wore. And muscled in a way that said she'd been training in the years since her disappearance.

Jill laughed a little now, eyeing him. "Come take it from me then. If you can."

What choice was there here?

He holstered his guns and dropped his knife into his hand. Jill tilted her head, like a curious dog. She set the case down…and waited. And Leon rushed her.

In the camp, Sherry and Claire were facing off with the dead that kept on rising. Only they didn't rise like zombies. They rose like something else. They kept trying to throw tentacles and combine with each other like some kind of flesh and a mutated jigsaw puzzle.

It was nothing Claire had ever seen before.

Where one was blasted, it reknitted and regrew. It suctioned to another body and started to blend. They could do little but shoot and run and roll and duck. Soon enough, four bodies were six and ten and then…one.

They were one massive thing that was rolling tentacles and shivering muscle with eight feet of slapping arms. A lab coat half hung off one arm as the thing moved toward them, kicking up sand and throwing gusts as it slid along the ground like a perverted snake.

It swung one massive arm, snapping it like a rubber band. Claire rolled and it hit the tent pole beside her. It brought the tent down in a flapping, crunching, noisy mess of burlap and wood. Sherry shot it in the back while it tried to take Claire with another swipe.

It snapped that arm back at her and hit her full in the face. She was thrown out like a dart. She hit another tent and took it down with her in a rush of collapse. Claire shot the tentacles in their nest of swirling centerpieces. She could almost glimpse something in the nest. It looked vaguely like an exposed underbelly on a cockroach. It was lumpy and pulsing and soft white within all the black.

The bullet grazed the squishy mass and the tentacle monster made a sound that resembled a cry of pain. It panicked, retreating as it made its way across the burning sand away from her.

Claire rushed toward the fallen tent to help Sherry to her feet. She watched her thrust her own dislocated arm up and back in place. There was a crunch and pop and Sherry made a small sound of pain. The girl was already healing the broken shoulder from her fall. They locked eyes in the blistering wind.

Sherry shook her head, "Not now! Please…not now!"

What kind of person could pop their own shoulder in place and heal it like that!? Claire couldn't stop the rush of fear from it. She dropped Sherry's arm like the girl was on fire.

The pain on that face would haunt her forever.

Sherry shook her head and ran toward the monster.

That's what had always scared her. That look on Claire's face. That horror mixed with fear. She'd looked at Sherry like she was…a monster.

They started to give chase to the monster in the sand and the sounds of battle reached them from the top of the rise.

Claire gave a shout of horror as they started running…and they'd never get there in time.

Admittedly, he'd never met anyone that moved better than Jill Valentine. She was fast and smooth and skilled. She spun low, came up, and hip tossed him.

Leon rolled free of it, spun out, and missed losing his head to her boot. He extended her leg, drove a punch into her groin, and tossed her to her back.

Jill scissors kicked out of the fall and knocked him around like it was nothing. He went onto his back, skidded, and grabbed the foot that stomped toward his face. He jerked, twisted, and rolled her beneath him. He put the knife to her eye while they both heaved out heavy breaths.

"Stay down, Jill. Let us help you. We can get whatever is in you…out."

Jill laughed and twisted. Her elbow came up and missed his face by an inch as she rolled, humped back, and tossed him off her. Her boots drove into his stomach and up he went like he weighed nothing.

Leon ducked and rolled through it, spinning out to sweep at her feet as she rushed him. Jill leaped over it, threw a roundhouse kick, and knocked him to his back in the sand. She straddled him and reversed the knife in his grip, shoving the blade against his sternum. It hit the tactical vest he wore and lodged there.

She taunted, "You can't win. You're done here. Give up and I will show you what it means to be powerful. Don't you realize what he can offer? He takes away the fear. He takes away the regret. He takes away the pain. He leaves you…hollow. And waiting for the truth."

He tried to see something in her face to reason with, but it was empty. Like a doll. Like a beautiful doll on the strings of a puppet master. There was nothing of Jill Valentine in her empty gaze.

Leon grabbed her arms and jerked her down. He head-butted her, feeling it ring down his neck as she rolled away and he humped his hips to launch himself to his feet. He grabbed her and put her in a headlock, kicking her in the back of the knee to spill her down.

"Jill…this isn't you. Do you hear yourself? You're loyal now to the man who killed you? Are you kidding?"

Jill laughed a little and reached behind her head to grab a handful of his hair. She rolled him over her shoulder and jerked, throwing him out and away. The power in her wasn't human. It was laced with something else. Whatever had kept her alive all this time had eroded the woman she'd once been.

Leon rolled through the sand, missed the boot aimed at him, and scissored his legs to grab her hips and jerk. She spilled down atop him and he pinned her there, octopus hugging her against his body. She laughed, letting him.

"You still hesitate to kill me? Why? You and I were never friends. I have no memory of you. I am nothing to you. Why do you hesitate?"

He looked into her face from inches away. "Because Claire is my friend."

Claire's name echoed on her face. She twitched, shaking her head like a fly had landed on her ear. She shivered. And then she laughed.

Her hands shifted against his body. He had a moment to know it was coming and the pain exploded in him. The knife she drove into his stomach felt like fire made flesh. She jerked it clean and shoved it home again. He kept on holding on to her.

And she laughed in his ear. "You will die trying to protect me…for Claire?"

She jerked the knife out and shoved it into him again. The wet of the blood on the sand at his back was hot and sticky. He breathed against her delicate ear, "Wouldn't you…for Chris?"

And now she froze.

She froze atop him. He felt her hand slip off the hilt of the knife. It was lodged above his right hip. Her head came up to look down into his pale face.

She blinked and shivered. Her ears filled with tears. "Chris?"

The pool of blood widened around them. He was dizzy. He heard the shouting from down below. The cavalry was coming. "Yeah…Chris. He went insane looking for you, Jill Valentine."

Her name made the tears tremble and fall to her porcelain cheeks. She cupped his face and whispered, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Tell him…tell him to find Ricardo Irving. Don't die. Please…don't die, Leon. I'm so sorry."

She left the knife in him and rose. Claire and Sherry were racing up the hill toward them. He caught a glimpse of something jewellike and red in the neck of her robe. Jill touched it with her hand and shook her head. "I don't have long. Irving…and Uroboros. Don't forget. Don't forget. I will take care of the B.O.W."

She raced across the sand away from him.

Leon tried to shift, and the world dipped around him. He was bleeding too badly for that. He rolled to his side and slipped in the soggy sand. It was saturated with blood.

The case was in the sand a few feet from him. He crawled now, dragging a line of blood like a tail behind him. He was dizzy as he grabbed for it and missed. He went to his face in the sand and felt the world slip away into the dark.

Claire reached him first. The sounds of fighting filled the air around them. The cloaked figure was fighting the B.O.W. in the distance.

Ignoring them, Claire jerked him over onto his back into her arms as she spilled to her knees beside him. She shouted to Sherry, "Radio for an evac! Hurry!"

The blood was everywhere. The sand was pink with it. She threw a hand over his stomach where the knife was lodged. She didn't dare pull it free. It was likely the only thing keeping him from bleeding out completely.

Someone was sobbing. They were sobbing. The moment she realized it was her, Claire tried to stop the crying. But she couldn't. She smoothed his hair back from his pale face. "Wake up…wake up, Leon. Look at me. Please."

She watched him breathe…and stop.

"No…oh god…Sherry! Where is the chopper!?"

Claire laid him in the sand and started CPR.

Sherry turned back from the call to HQ and froze. She froze and watched the sand kick up around them as Claire pushed on him and shouted to her. "Help me! Hurry! Sherry, help me!"

Sherry was frozen. She was frozen. So much blood. It was everywhere. It was all around him. As Claire pumped, more spilled from his stomach. Claire was weeping. She'd never, ever, seen Claire cry before. She was crying as she pumped on his chest and shouted at him.

"Not now! Not like this! Come back to me! Do you hear me!? Come back to me, Leon! Leon Kennedy! Look at me now!"

Sherry sank to her knees in the sand, frozen there.

It was love, she thought desperately, that's what love looked like. Claire loved him. It was all over her like perfume or poison or skin. It was flesh and bone and blood. She loved him. It was in her face and her hands and her desperate weeping. It was in her mouth as she gave him air and begged him not to leave her.

Don't leave me, Leon. I need you. Don't leave me.

That was what years and years of love looked like. That's what real love looked like. The kind born in a dirty city and nurtured over years of friendship and failure and laughter and loss. How did she ever think she could keep him in the face of that love? Claire LOVED him. And Claire was her world.

Claire looked at her again, desperate, "Please! Sherry! Help me! I can't keep going alone!"

Sherry shook herself free of the horror and raced toward them. She slid in the sand and took over. Her heart hurt. It hurt as pressed and breathed and bled inside. The love for him nearly killed her where she knelt. It was echoed, painfully, on Claire's beautiful face. Sherry didn't know how to NOT love him. It was all she'd ever done. Apparently, it was all Claire had ever done as well.

Sherry breathed into his mouth and whispered, "Please. Please don't give up. Please."

That, please. It filled his head and stole his soul. He gasped in the sand and jerked like a landed fish. Claire sank to her knees and wept with the relief of it. She covered her face with her hands.

Sherry felt the tears spill wet and slow down her cheeks. She cupped his cheek as he gasped and breathed, shaking. She whispered, "…thank you. Oh god, thank you."

Two women, covered in his blood, kneeling in the sand beside him That's what it looked like to the chopper that touched down in the twisting sand to extract them saw. It's what Chris saw as he leaped free to help them.

It was love for the idiot on both of them. Pure and painful and real.

The medics stabilized him as they airlifted away. Sherry held the case in her lap with her back against the wall. He'd nearly died to get what was inside this case. She was afraid. She was so afraid to look inside and find the answer.

Claire was leaning back against the wall beside her. She had her eyes closed and was breathing hard and fast. Sherry wanted to hold her hand but the fear she'd seen on Claire's face held her back. She didn't think she could handle that rejection from her.

But she had to know the truth here. She had to know.

She said, quietly, "You love him."

Claire turned her gaze to the girl beside her. She held that solemn look in a face red with blood.

And she answered, "I've always loved him."

But not the way Sherry did. Never like that. If she'd have thought of it, she'd have said it aloud. But she didn't. She just...left it at that.

And killed the girl beside her with it.

Sherry felt the hitch of her breath and nodded. She didn't cry. The pain in her was too deep, too wide, and too profound for that. She clutched the case to her chest and rolled her eyes away to stare off into the horizon.

It flickered in pretty green trees and rolling white sand as Chris guided their chopper away into the clouds.

Claire was her world. She'd been her only friend for as long as she could remember. Claire was everything. She was so good and honest and loving. They'd betrayed her by carrying on their affair behind her back. Not on purpose, no. Not like that. She would never have touched him that first time, ever, if she'd known Claire was in love with him.

Sherry felt her breath catch on a small sound of pain. She would never have touched him. The idea made her feel empty and broken. It stole her breath and made her cold. What would she be without him? If she'd never touched him, what would she be?

She stared into the trees, and couldn't find an answer.

So, instead, she started talking. She told Claire all about her blood and the mutation in it that made her a B.O.W. She told her about the experimentation and the training. She spoke of the missions she'd done and her healing abilities. She explained why she'd never told her before and that she was terrified it would mean the end of their friendship.

Claire grabbed her hand and squeezed. Her look was fierce now as they held gazes. "I'm sorry about before. That was stupid. It was reaction. It was wrong, Sherry. I'm sorry. It doesn't change anything to know it. Do you hear me? You're my sister. My SISTER. The only one I've ever had. The blood of it never mattered. Not where it counts."

They held on and Sherry put her head on Claire's shoulder. They wrapped arms around each other and clung. And they listened to the sound of the heart monitor that beeped and let them know the man they both loved was still alive.

* * *

He awoke in the tank of goop. It shouldn't have surprised him. It was where they poked you when you were dying, clearly. But he was spending a lot of time lately floating in goop.

The door whooshed up and Sherry came in. This was getting to be a familiar scene. Entirely.

She hit the button and he was sucked out of the tube.

It dumped him naked into the chamber. He hadn't even been in boxers in the goop this time. Stark naked.

Sherry was fully dressed. She wore a sweater in soft pink and jeans that belled at the bottom. The floppy neck of the sweater framed her face and the curls of her blonde hair. She offered him a fluffy white robe.

Amused, he lifted a brow at her.

She remained resolute. "Please."

That, please. It would be the death of him.

He took it and put it on, belting it at the waist. "Good enough?"

"Yes. Thank you." She leaned against the door and crossed her arms over her chest. Curious, Leon studied her.

"You got the case?"

"I did. There was no cure."

She didn't sound…she didn't seem…something was WRONG here. His alarm bells in his head were signaling. Something was wrong. She didn't seem destroyed by it. How long had he been in that damn tank?

Gruffly, he intoned, "I'm sorry, Sherry. I'm sorry. I thought…"

She shook her head. Her eyes sprang with tears and she lifted a hand when he took a step toward her. "Please don't. Please. I…it's fine. It's fine. The case didn't have a vaccine. It had information on someone named Irving. A black market weapons dealer who trades in B.O.W.S. We're funneling the information to the B.S.A.A. to look into it. There was also…"

She reached into her back pocket and tugged out a small compact. She tossed it to him and he caught it. He didn't even leave down at it. He kept on staring at her.

What was wrong here? What was happening?

He took another step toward her and she…retreated. She retreated from him.

She backed off and turned her back on him.

His hand curled around the compact and squeezed.

Sherry shifted to another wall and leaned, watching him. "You don't know what that is?"

"No. Should I?"

"You should. It was tucked into that case with your name on it."

He glanced down at the compact. It was nothing special. It was gold and had a pretty butterfly engraved atop it. When you opened it, it had shimmery powder in it. He studied it, turning it. There was a kiss mark on the pretty mirror inside it.

Curious, Leon touched the kiss mark. The compact made a small sound and spit a tiny memory chip out the bottom. It was in the shape of a cocoon.

Sherry lifted a brow at him. "No idea huh?"

He glanced up at her. She still had her arms crossed. Her face…what was that on her face? She'd never looked at him like that before. There was NOTHING on her face. Tears sparkled in her ears which made a liar out of the cold demeanor.

What had happened while he'd been in that fucking tank?

He offered her the chip. "No idea. Don't believe me?"

"No."

"Take it. Go ahead. I don't know who left it. I don't know who wanted me to find it. I don't know any fucking thing about it."

She stared at him. He stared back. He could feel the hammer of his heart signaling anger…and maybe something else. What was that? Fear? What was he afraid of here?

The look on her face, obviously.

"'What's happening here? What's wrong?"

Sherry shook her head and pushed off the wall. "Keep it. You'll need it. Claire and Chris are already tracking information on Irving. Who was it that tried to kill you back there?"

He held her gaze. "Jill Valentine."

Sherry jerked and blinked. "What?"

"Yep. It was Jill. Why? Why was she there? Why offer us a red herring about a cure and then leave that case with that information? Someone is playing games here. She's under Wesker's control, no lie there. But why? And what was the purpose of sending us there?"

Sherry shrugged and turned away to pace back and forth. He watched her, unsure of his footing here. She didn't want him to touch her, clearly. But why?

Sherry said, quietly, "Why didn't she kill you?"

And now he shrugged, fingers curling around the small chip to press it into his palm. "I don't know. I mentioned Claire and Chris. It seemed to…halt…whatever is happening in her. She showed emotion. She showed regret. She said to tell Chris about Irving. She seemed like she was trying to make amends. I think we need to start digging around in Africa and looking for clues about what's happening there."

Sherry turned back and met his eyes. "I agree. So did Chris and Claire. They're digging. You know what happened here, don't you?"

Leon tilted his head, watching her. "What happened here?"

"Excella set us up."

Yeah. He knew that. He'd known it the moment Jill had met him on that rise. The question was: why? What was she playing at? Was she working with Wesker? And to what purpose?

The questions were endless here.

And there were no answers.

Leon took a step toward her and she backed off again.

And it was enough. "What the fuck is happening here, Sherry?"

Sherry shifted where she stood. She rolled her lips in and nibbled them. She was nervous now and uncomfortable. She finally said, "I have to go back. There was no cure, Leon. So, I have to go back to Simmons."

"Like hell you do."

She winced at the anger in his voice.

"I do. I'm sorry. It's what I have to do. You know I'm right."

He took another step toward her and she backed away. It rolled in his blood like rage now as he kept on moving. She lifted a hand to stop him and he grabbed it. "Damnit, Sherry, stop running from me."

He pulled her forward and into him. She made some sound and stood stiffly in the circle of his arms.

He might have let her go, might have, but she started shaking.

She started shaking while he held her. She shook like a leaf. He grabbed her chin and turned her face up to him.

"Talk to me. Tell me. What's wrong here?"

She shook her head and two small tears plopped onto her cheeks.

His thumbs shifted and swept them away. "What is it? Tell me. Simmons?"

She shook her head again. Her hands lifted and curled around the neck of the robe. She gripped it, breathing fast and low.

"Is it the cure? I'm so fucking sorry about it. We'll keep looking. I won't stop looking. You know that. You know I won't."

She shook her head again. And again. And again.

Leon cupped her face and kissed her closed eyes, first one, then the other. It was tender. It was loving. It broke her fucking heart. A small sound escaped her mouth.

He kissed behind her ear, sweeping away the tears that trickled down her cheeks. He…soothed her. He soothed her so gently.

She was so in love with him. It hurt her. Loving him hurt her.

And she finally spoke, "….this is done."

He went still against her. The silence was so loud. It was painful to hear it.

He spoke so low it dragged from his chest. "What?"

She let go of his robe. She lifted her hands and drew his away from her face. She pushed them against his chest and held them there. "…we're done."

It was a whisper. It felt like a roar. It felt like a grenade tossed into the center of the room to destroy them.

She wouldn't even look up at his face. She stared at his collarbone. She held his hands against his chest and said it again. "We're done, Leon. This is done. I'm sorry. I'm done."

She let go of him and turned away.

He didn't move. He couldn't move. Why couldn't he move? He felt rooted to the spot. He looked down to see if he was stuck in glue or something. He wasn't. But he couldn't move.

Sherry trembled but kept walking. She said, over her shoulder, "I'm sorry. Thank you for everything. It's time for me to go. Good luck in Africa."

The door whooshed up. The door whooshed down.

He stood in the room and couldn't move.

Even after the light above him winked out.

Sherry took two steps and then three down the hallway. She took two more. She made it ten steps in total and the door beside her whooshed open. Claire and Chris emerged, laughing and talking about something on the tablet he held.

Claire glanced up at her. She froze. Her smile slipped away, "Sherry? What is it? What's wrong?"

Sherry said, woodenly, "It's done now. I have to go back. And it's done. I'm so sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry. He's yours again. All yours. I'm sorry."

Claire jerked like she'd struck her. "Sherry…what did you do? What are you saying?"

"I'm sorry. It's done. I have to go."

She passed by them. She didn't look back. She walked stiffly down the hallway. She didn't do anything but move. Fifteen steps. Twenty steps.

Claire shouted after her, "Sherry! WAIT! Just listen to me!"

She emerged onto the tarmac and got on the chopper.

She belted herself in.

She'd given him back. It was how she showed Claire she loved her. She'd given him back. It was the right thing to do. It was done. She'd given him back.

It was done.

She was still a monster. There was no cure. And there was no Leon Kennedy.

She was alone again in her gilded cage.

Alone.

She'd given him back.

She put her face in her hands and fell apart. The pain of it broke out of her mouth in a keening sob. She drew her knees to her chest and buried her face…and wept.

Because giving him back was going to kill her. Knives could kill her. Guns couldn't kill her. She was a monster. She was unkillable. She was still a monster.

And losing him was going to kill her.

Sherry sat alone in the chopper and died inside from it.


	19. Absorption

**Stage Nineteen: Absorption**

* * *

Life goes on. It can't do anything but that. It was a series of moments where no one lived - and everyone survived.

Claire tried, she did, to fill her world with love and devotion and redemption. She clung to the idea of hope so hard that she was afraid she'd smother Piers with her needs. But he just...stayed. He kept on staying. He just kept coming back to her.

She choked him so hard once during sex he nearly passed out. Horrified, hurting, she'd hid in the bathroom until he came for her - and brought her back to bed to hold her. He didn't ask, but he knew whatever she'd lived in the Black Forest had made her a shell of herself. He just...kept on coming back to her.

Sherry refused Leon entrance to The Compound to see her.

He tried. Every day for three months, he tried. But she had him barred at the door. Claire was allowed, but he was forbidden.

After three months, he stopped trying.

Sherry cried herself to sleep for nearly a year in misery. Claire tried to explain, but Sherry quickly shut her down. She was done with him, she avowed, and meant it. She meant it.

But she slept with his jacket like a security blanket anyway.

She saw him only once, once, when Jill Valentine had stood been whisked away after her return from Africa to be deprogrammed. Alive, but a shadow, the woman who'd nearly killed him was hidden somewhere for intensive treatment. Leon and Sherry had stood in the lobby of the BSAA and locked eyes.

He moved like he'd speak to her and she turned away, sliding through the crowd. He ground his teeth and called, "...little fool!"

The glass of scotch in his hand was launched into the wall where she'd been like a bullet. It shattered, taking the ragged pieces of his rage with it. Heartless bitch, he seethed, to cut him out like he was nothing. Nothing.

He almost afraid he'd become obsessed with her. She'd bled her needs all over him - and left him empty when she'd fled.

He moved his way up the stairs to the bathroom. The mirror reflected his face back at him - haggard and old. Old. He felt a thousand years old, lusting after some young girl like an idiot. It was karma, his wanting her like he did. Karma. Because he'd used so many women - now he wanted the one he couldn't have.

He fucked other girls. He was grieving, not dead. He fucked plenty. Each one bored him.

The end of Albert Wesker was a gift. Joy spread through the world like the birth of Christ or something. People lined up to celebrate his demise in the bioterror field like someone had killed Hitler or Bin Laden. Hadn't they? They had...definitely.

The world was a safer place.

Claire broke down and wept, like nothing anyone had ever seen. Relief? Rage? Regret? She wouldn't say. She couldn't say. She grieved, in ways that had no name.

Piers stayed at her side, holding on. Silent. Supportive.

The night the news broke about Wesker's death, Claire and Piers made love - maybe for the first time. Soft. Needy. Slow. She purged the pain of it, the hate of it, the rage of it - and finally let him in.

She was never quite sure what was left for him to find in her. But she let him in. Neither knew what they'd build from the ashes of that acceptance...but they were going to try.

As the nightmares came and went, as the horror turned her to misery and sometimes madness that left them both aching, he stayed with her - offering her light when there felt like she'd drown in the dark. It was Piers, and Piers alone, that kept her grounded the moment Alex Wesker took her away to test her strength.

It was Piers that kept alive - because with him...she was no longer afraid.

* * *

 **Outside Edonia - 2012**

* * *

She'd never figure out how he knew where they were sending her.

For Sherry, her missions were always so very simple, so very staid, so very boring. They sent her in to clean up and extract some target that was of little importance.

Until they sent her to extract Jake Muller. The information handed to her was so hostile, so unbelievable that she'd stared at Simmons like he had a second head. "What?"

"Muller is the offspring of Albert Wesker."

It seemed surreal, but she took the helicopter he poked her on to a small hovel in the outskirts of Edonia anyway. They needed his blood, Simmons said, to make vaccines. They needed him to change the world.

She'd be a hero if she brought him back. She was authorized to pay his price - up to a point - for his cooperation. He was a mercenary, they said, and would agree for right amount of money.

Sherry set her little bag on the cot in the hovel where she was staying. It contained her piece and her jacket. Nothing else. She had her phone, her gun, and her freedom - it was enough. If she completed this, Simmons told her, she was FREE. She could barely contain the feeling of desire that coursed through her veins.

She didn't think there was anything she wanted more in the world than her freedom.

The door rattled on her little hovel. It was little more than stone and dirt here. She was aiming down the barrel of the big gun she carried when the door edged open.

And she was very aware that there was something in the world she wanted more after all.

Leon Kennedy stood in the doorway of the hovel - in a torn black fleece and dirty jeans. He looked tired, beat up, and bruised. His hands were empty, he wasn't armed and yet, she hadn't dropped hers. She kept it on him.

"What do you want?"

He narrowed his gaze at her, "I came to help you."

She waved the gun at him, "Get out. I don't need your help."

She watched the anger on him and felt it shiver like an aphrodisiac over her. "Go play hero somewhere else, Leon. I don't need you."

That was a lie. A huge one. A big one. A massive one. She needed him. She'd always needed him. But Claire loved him. And she loved Claire. It was best to stay where she was, with him there outside her door.

He tossed the small assault bag in his hand on the floor and moved into the hovel. He kicked the door shut, flashing warning signs of rage around him. "Put the fucking gun down, Sherry, and stop being stupid."

She didn't. She put a bullet into the wall an inch to the left of his left ear. It made him freeze...and slowly lift his hands. "Easy. Take it easy."

She shook her head, "I said get out. I meant it. I'm not stupid. I don't need a savior. I don't need a hero. I am just fine, thanks. Get out."

He shook his head and the shaggy spill of his hair made her chest hurt. "What the fuck is wrong with you? This is business, Sherry. It's business. In 24 hours, you're going after the biological child of the most powerful hybrid known to man. We need him secured and you need all the help you can get. So let me help you, and stop being so stubborn!"

A long moment passed in silence. Her heart was slamming in her chest. She licked her lips twice and whispered, "Fine. FINE. But I'm in charge."

Surprised, he arched a brow, "The gun doesn't make you powerful, Sherry. This is what I do, let me do it."

Hoarsely, she whispered, "Take off your coat."

They held eyes, for a long, long, long moment. She felt her world dip and he finally spoke, gruff and deep, "I'm not armed. It's in the bag."

She breathed, "...prove it."

And the world fractured again. His hands raised and caught the zipper of the fleece. He jerked it down and shed the coat, tossing it on the floor. He grabbed his shirt over his head and she hissed, " _SLOWLY_."

She watched the command cause his teeth to flash like a wolf. He toed off his boots and held his arms to the sides, showing himself unarmed. She shook her head, "All of it. To the skin."

Jesus.

He grabbed at his belt and whipped the leather, throwing it to the floor. She instructed, sharply, "Kick the belt to me."

His eyes flashed again but he did it that too. His fingers popped the buttons on his fly and she caught a glimpse of him beneath. Nothing else. Just him. She felt her breath catch and hold.

And the jeans jingled as he dumped them on the floor.

He stood there, naked and beautiful. She hadn't look at him in years. She'd been so young and stupid. He was still beautiful - crisp with hair in the right places and muscled in a way that stole her breath. He was scarred and wonderful and perfectly made.

She breathed, "Touch yourself."

And shattered the last image of herself as the girl in his hotel at his command. He slid his hand around his dick and rolled it, holding her gaze across the room. It was a moment of power so intense, she damped her panties just looking at him. Her breathing was catchy and raw.

She kept the gun on him and kicked off her boots. She peeled her pants down her legs and her panties in a single jerk. The gun wavered as she moved toward him.

He shook his head, stroking himself. His voice was breathy and damning. "Don't, Sherry. This is business. Don't do this."

"Shut up. Do you hear me? Shut up and touch me."

His other hand moved. It crossed her hip and dipped lower. She shivered but kept the gun on him. "Two. Sharp. Now."

He obeyed and pushed two fingers into her so quickly that she made a gasp of pain. Her hand shot down to grip his wrist as he held them there, watching her.

She could end it like this, with him hard and ready. She could deny him and hurt him and be done with it. But she couldn't. She wanted to own him. His thumb parted her folds of its own and stroked her clit, taunting her. She let him, leaning into the touch and his fingers moved in her, slow and damning.

He breathed, "Damnit, Sherry. Damnit." He dropped his gaze to watch his fingers penetrate and retreat. He let go of his own dick to push the other hand under her shirt and find her breast beneath it. No bra, no cover, it slipped into his waiting palm to peak for him.

He grunted, "You want me to fuck you?"

He slid his eyes up her body. She shook her head no.

And she was stronger than him. She was. They both knew it.

Something must have been on his face. He slid his fingers out of her. "Don't."

The gun clattered to the floor.

Sherry grabbed his face and startled him. She jerked him up to her mouth and forced her tongue on him so that he had to open she'd break his jaw. He opened and she fucked his mouth, fisted a hand in his hair, and possessed him.

When she let go, he made a sound. "Don't, Sherry."

'I'm sorry." And she looked it.

She pushed a hand against his chest and sent him stumbling. He bumped the cot and ended up sitting. He lifted a hand like he'd stop her and she knocked it aside. She shoved him on to his back and jerked him over by his hair. He caught her wrist and she shoved his shoulder. He hissed but it wasn't terrible. It only stung now. He was bruised and wounded.

He grunted, "Don't." Again. As if she'd care.

Sherry shoved him back and grabbed his hands.

She forced them over his head.

"Don't…Sherry. Don't."

Her hands jerked off her shirt. She caught his as he reached for her and bound him while he struggled. It was the first time he'd ever been controlled like this. By anyone, ever, anywhere. He wasn't a man who submitted. He just wasn't.

She bound him to the headboard like it was nothing.

He jerked, angry now. "Let me go."

"No. Shut up. Or I'll hurt you." She nipped his mouth and made him stop struggling to stare at her. And she whispered, "Do you want me to hurt you?"

He answered, "I want you to stop."

But he shivered. He shivered as she stroked his nipples with her nails and made a liar out of himself. She breathed, "I love you. I've missed you. Did you miss me?"

He shook his head no and her hand closed around his dick. He made a small sound as she worked him, watching his face. She tried again, "Did you miss me, Leon?"

He gasped, eyes flickering. "...yes."

"...I'm going to fuck you now."

"...Sherry,"He shivered again as she licked the tip of his cock, torturing him, "Don't."

"I'm sorry. I am. But I need you."

He gasped, bowing a little toward her mouth. "Let me go."

"...I'm sorry. I can't. I'm going to make you come for me."

She did. She straddled him and took him. He made a sound because she rode down on him so hard it almost made him come in her in one move. She grunted. And she rode his body with a wet, sticky, slapping rhythm that stole both of their breaths. She wasn't quiet. She wasn't still. She didn't obey.

She just took him.

He gasped, "Jesus Christ..."

Wild. She was wild. She cried out, she kissed him, feeding him her tongue. He craned his neck, he sucked it, he gave up and met each dive of her body down on him with a surge of hips. She fucked him so hard it hurt them both as she came down, went up, and came down again.

He gasped and she whispered, "I'm sorry. Oh, I'm sorry. MINE….please."

He'd never had a woman apologize for being obsessed with him. It was insane. She ground her mouth against his. "Please. Say yes...It won't hurt too much... Just me. Just me. Please. Say yes."

Undone, he let her claim him. "...yes."

It hurt him. It hurt his back and his legs and his hips. She was all speed, all strength. She went up, she smashed down, he lost his breath. Her breasts bounced, her hands held him down. She finally released his hands to sit straight up on him and roll.

His hands snapped up to grab her hips. He held on, shaking. He was shaking. It thrilled her. It killed her. She put his hand over her heart and threw hers on him to mirror it.

She gasped it, "Mine."

And she came. She came around him so wet, so tight, he couldn't do anything but answer it. He grunted, he surged. His back bowed, throbbing, and he hit the end of her while he spilled inside of her. She clamped around him and took. She took him. It was that simple. It was that complicated.

And then she collapsed on his chest and slid against the sweat of him.

She curled her fingers into his chest and gripped, feeling his heart hammer, feeling him shudder beneath her. He wheezed when he breathed. He breathed short and choppy. She died. She died on him while she wanted him.

Finally, he spoke into the sex filled silence, "….I said don't."

She trembled. "I know what you said. I just didn't care."

He wanted to be mad. He wasn't. He wasn't mad. He was pretty sure he was going to have a heart attack and die…but he wasn't mad. But that wasn't the point. At all.

He sat up and she spilled sideways in his lap. Oh god, she thought and waited for it. His hand curved over her bottom petting. And then it struck. He wasn't gentle. Not at all. He spanked her while she moaned, shaking, quivering, and gasping. He played his fingers into the sign of her victory of him, pushing them into her juices and his to torture her. And then he spanked her harder.

He spanked her pretty little ass pink and blushing. He played with her body and made her insane. She milked his fingers and mewled like a kitten while he punished her. Tender, she shivered as she arched into each blow.

The third time he brought his hand down she caught it and tugged. It spilled him to the bed beside her. She pinned his arms over his head and straddled him. "From now on, you only punish me when I beg for it."

Lord.

She gripped his sticky shaft in her hand and played with it. He was half erect before she even started moving her hand.

"But right now, you don't go until I tell you."

It was the moment he knew he was obsessed with her - the master had become the student. There was nothing left for him to teach her...and a lifetime of learning he was ready to begin.

* * *

 **Post Note:** _It feels like one last chapter to tie up this version of the story - potentially. I'm still feeling out how exactly I want it to end. It was never meant to be a happy ending - and as we know Piers soon meets his end, it can't end that way anyway. The obsession that bridges between Leon and Sherry isn't all beautiful, there are parts that redeeming in the sheer scope of submitting yourself to someone else completely. But the pain of that tight a bond would eventually choke you both._


End file.
